Xmas Carols
by lamentomori
Summary: A little collection of fics inspired by Christmas Carols. Various pairings and warnings - Full track listing in Chapter 26, complete with all warnings.
1. God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen

_Warnings: Slash (Unspecified/Punk), Minor Slash __(Colt/Punk), Smut,__ Profanity, Domestic Abuse, AU.__  
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><p>"Shh... Easy." The voice buzzing in Punk's ears is utterly unfamiliar, the softness underneath him equally so. It feels like a bed, but it's not his bed. He knows his bed, knows the way that there's a spring that digs into his kidneys uncomfortably, but he's not got the money to buy a new mattress. He knows the smell of the linen, the smell of the room, and this isn't it. This linen smells almost store bought new, this room smells different, like it's not got a smell yet. He tries to open his eyes, and fails, his face hurts, which at this stage is about the only familiar thing to him, so he takes comfort in that. It's depressing that being in pain is so familiar that it's comforting, but that's Punk's life. "Wait... Just wait." Something warm and wet swipes gently over his left eye, and cautiously Punk cracks it open, seeing a slightly bloody man in hipster glasses, peering at him with a worried look on his face.<p>

"_Whe..._" Punk's voice is rough, his throat scratchy from ill-use, and his Good Samaritan hands him a glass of water. He takes a greedy gulp, and a hand takes hold of his wrist, guiding the glass from his lips. Without thought Punk glares at the man in glasses, briefly furious at being denied, the gulp of water was painful to swallow too, but it's more a fear of not getting any more that concerns him. He clings to his ire only briefly though, quickly realising he has no idea where he is, or who the man opposite him is. He could very well be in a serial killer's house, he could be anywhere with anyone, and no way of letting anyone know where he is, or that he's safe, not that there's anyone to tell really.

"Slowly." The man smiles at him, the kind of smile Punk can't actually remember the last time he saw, a smile without hatred or malicious intent towards him. He seems to inspire malice and hatred in people. He doesn't mean to, but he tends to speak without thinking, and that's always getting him in trouble. This smile though, it's a weird sight, not one he's used to in any way, shape, or form. He nods vaguely, and sips at the water, grateful as the tiny sips soothe his aching throat. Once the glass is empty, the man takes it from him, leaves him lying alone in bed. The room is painted a bland oatmeal colour, the colour walls are when you first move in somewhere. The whole place is personality less, boxes here and there. Wherever he is, the Good Samaritan hasn't been there long either. "How you feelin'?" The man asks once he comes back, an awkward little smile on his face, startling Punk from his restricted observations of the room.

"Where am I?" Priorities are things Punk has a lot of, and right now number one is working out where the hell he is, so he can get back home. The last thing he can remember was being beaten, fists colliding with his body over and over, the feeling of his head smacking against the wall. The last thought he'd had been that worry that there was blood on it, it'll have stained by the time he's feeling up to cleaning it at this rate.

"Well, you're in my apartment... I found you on the floor." The man's awkward smile slips away, leaving him looking at Punk, the way the light's reflecting off the lenses of his glasses makes it difficult to see the expression in his eyes. "You want me to call the cops? I'm sure they can find the people who kicked the shit out of you..." Punk almost wants to laugh. It wasn't people who beat him, it was a _person_, one man. A man he should have left years ago, a man he foolishly loved once upon a time, and now stays with out of some strange sense of duty. It's almost that he's too afraid to leave, he'd tried once or twice before, and there are always threats. Threats to him, threats to the people he loves, threats that his lover will kill himself if Punk doesn't go back, so he always does, his lover has a wife, kids, he can't have them losing their daddy over him. In those few weeks when he's first back it's good, it's like it was in the beginning, but then something will happen, and things return to the way they always are. When he was younger, Punk had always thought that people who endure domestic abuse were weak, and Punk's not weak by any stretch of the imagination. It's just not good for his health to argue with his lover, it ends up with him in pain more often than not. This time though, he'd made it out of the apartment, he remembers the hallway clearly, but can't remember his lover following him. He doesn't think his lover will still be in his apartment, but when he comes over he never reacts well to seeing Punk's blood on the walls or the floor, so he'll need to get the place cleaned before the next visit, whenever that is, and lying in this bed, won't get walls cleaned. Punk's often wondered if he somehow deserves this relationship. His parents had turned their backs on him, his friends are few and far between, his work colleagues are nothing more than people whose cheques are signed by the same company as his, there has to be something wrong with him that he ends up abandoned, and alone in horrible situations so often. His lover is quick to remind Punk of his many flaws, his many failings, and having heard it for so long, Punk's essentially come to agree.

"It's okay." Punk croaks, his throat still feels rough, he can feel the ghost of the hand that had been wrapped around it, choking the life out of him in rage. He's sure he's wearing a pretty necklace of bruises from those strong fingers.

"I really should take you to the hospital, get your arm looked at, at least." The man's mouth quirks in an odd expression, and Punk shakes his head, trying to get out of bed, intending to get home, but ending up choking back a scream of pain. It seems that his lover had gotten him worse than he thought. Now that he's moved it, his arm feels full of molten lead, his hip doesn't feel much better, and the entire left side of his body feels weirdly _hot_. "Whoa, whoa, easy there... Jesus." The man is there quickly, rapidly pushing Punk back against the pillows. "You're beat up, man, stay put." Punk blinks at him, the words not making much sense, the room spinning. "Oh fuck... That's it, I'm calling an ambulance."

The second time he wakes up, he's in a hospital room, an IV line in the back of one hand, and his Good Samaritan sitting in the chair by the bed, watching TV, a notebook in his lap, and a pen between his teeth.

"_Wh-_"

"You're in a hospital." The man turns to Punk, tucking his pen behind his ear, and fetches a glass of water. "_Slowly_." He mutters, holding the glass to Punk's lips, letting him take small sips. "How you feelin?"

"Shit." Punk manages to rasp out. He truly does feel like shit, _everything_ hurts, every inch of his body aches to varying degrees, and his walls are probably stained with his blood. There's a stupid part of Punk that's worried about his deposit, there's no chance he's getting that back.

"I'm not surprised... Doctors tell me you've got a fractured skull... Ain't much they can do for that... And you've got no id... So I've no idea if you've got medical insurance. Fuck, I don't even know your name... They've been calling you John Doe." The man refills Punk's glass, and sits back down. "So... You wanna answer any of those questions, Mr Doe?" He smiles, and Punk is more than resentful of his glasses and their ability to reflect light. The easiest way to tell a man's intent is to see his eyes; the light that reflects off the lenses makes it impossible to see anything, impossible to know anything about this Good Samaritan.

"Punk." He croaks, his head is beginning to ache, all he wants to do is go back to sleep, but it would be rude, and he should somehow contact his lover, let him know he's not dead at least, though he might appreciate Punk being dead. If he were then there wouldn't be any more horrible arguments, there wouldn't be Punk's blood to scrub off the walls again. The man in the chair snorts, and looks at Punk, he takes the pen from behind his ear and places it between his teeth once more.

"That's your name? I'm guessing that you ain't got medical then, Punk." He sighs, and Punk passes out again, hearing the man laughing softly at him. Punk's used to being laughed at, but not like that. When he's laughed at it's with something dark and cruel, not something light and kind.

The third time he wakes up, the Good Samaritan is talking to someone, his back turned to Punk, their voices too low for Punk to hear. He lies staring that the Good Samaritan's back wondering if his lover is worried about him at all. He's has no idea how long he's been gone from his apartment, but he's sure it'll be long enough to earn another beating when he _finally_ gets back. Even if his lover hasn't visited to know that Punk's not there, there'll be something to beat Punk for, there always is.

"Hey! You're awake." The Good Samaritan turns round and smiles at Punk. He's holding a piece of paper in one hand, and his cell phone in the other. "The hospital thinks they have an identity for you, and there's some cop here who wants to talk to you. Something about a missing persons that was filled for someone that fits your description."

"_Wh-_" Punk looks pitifully at the Good Samaritan, and he comes over, pouring Punk a glass of water, helping him drink it again. Punk's not used to kindness, especially not used to it from strangers, but it's easy to accept help from this guy, he's _nice_. "Who are you?"

"Who am I? Yeah, I should tell you that, huh?" The Good Samaritan laughs, and refills the glass. "Call me Colt." He holds the piece of paper up for Punk to see, written on it is Punk's legal name, his address, some other particulars, and his lover's name. "So, you're actually called Phil?"

"Yeah... But, call me Punk." Punk takes the piece of paper, scrunching it in his hand slightly. "How long have I been here?"

"Since last night, it's like ten a.m. now, so less than twelve hours... Apparently your _friend_ was worried, and-"

"He's a cop so he put out a watch on the hospitals." Punk mutters, closing his eyes, and the Good Samaritan, _Colt_, laughs, but Punk feels sick. His lover is going to be furious, having to put a watch on the hospitals, having to explain to people something about Punk. He might not survive the beating for this.

"Yeah... Those guys who beat you up are gonna be in for it when he gets here, huh?" Colt smiles at him, and Punk makes an agreeing noise. His head is pounding, and someone will be in for it when his lover gets there, just not the person who beat Punk up. He can only hope that a skull fracture will keep him from being beaten again, he's not sure he can take another beating, not right now at least. "So... I noticed that you were almost home when you passed out." Colt's smile is tight and awkward, and Punk looks up at him suddenly uncomfortable. There's something in Colt's tone, something soft and kind, something warm and gentle, something that makes Punk feel oddly _safe_.

"What?" He murmurs, raising a hand to rub at his temple, his head's pounding, _aching_ and all he wants is to sleep some more. He doesn't need strange confusing feelings and equally strange thoughts in his head about this guy's soft, _safe_ voice. He needs to rest so he can face his lover.

"I live next door, moved in like two weeks ago. I-" Colt smiles again, and Punk almost nods at him, but the pain in his head stops the action in its tracks. Colt moved in recently, that explains why his house, why his bed smelled so new.

"Here you are." The sound of his lover's voice interrupts whatever it was Colt was going to say, and Punk stares at the man he _loves_, resisting the urge to cringe back against the thin hospital pillows. "I was _so_ worried... What happened to you?" His lover creeps closer, taking Punk's hand, his lips are wearing a kindly smile, but his eyes are filled with rage.

"Well, he's not said, but my guess is a mugging." Colt offers, and Punk's lover _looks _at him. Punk desperately wants Colt to leave, the longer he stays the worse this is going to be for Punk. It's already not going to be good; he doesn't think he'll be able to take worse.

"A mugging?" He asks, and Colt nods. Punk curses the glasses he's wearing again, if they weren't there, he'd be able to see Colt's eyes, be able to judge at his emotions better. There's a _tiny_ stupid part of Punk that likes Colt, that _thinks_ he likes Punk too, but he's clearly just a nice guy, he's clearly just a Good Samaritan, no one likes Punk, no one but his lover, and even then he doesn't like Punk all that much. People who like you don't smack you around after all.

"Well, I'm guessing... He almost made it back home though, you'll be pleased to hear. Scott Colton, I'm his neighbour." Colt holds his hand out, and Punk is mildly confused as to why Colt is giving a different name to his lover. Though, it might be that Colt is a nickname, and he'd given it to Punk in return for Punk telling him to call him Punk.

"Well, I'm glad you came along when you did, Mr Colton... A regular Good Samaritan." Punk's lover takes his hand, shaking it firmly.

"Just being neighbourly... If you need anything, lemme know." Colt looks to be leaving, his tone strangely heavy to Punk's ears. "The doctors told me his arm's broke, his hip's cracked and he's got a fractured skull... He's going to need to take it easy for a while, months probably..." Punk's lover nods distractedly, his eyes focused on Punk's face. Colt takes his glasses off, and looks at Punk, something understanding in the deep brown eyes that focus on Punk's face. "You'll be good to go round Summer time most likely... If I can _help_ let me know."

"I will..." Punk mutters, and his lover squeezes his right shoulder firmly. Punk's glad it wasn't the left, that arm's in a sling, and he thinks that he'd not have been able to hide the pain of that grip if it was on his injured arm. Colt leaves, and Punk almost wants to call him back, almost wants to think of a good reason to not be left alone with his lover, but this is his bed, and he needs to lie in it.

"You're fucking your neighbours now, _whore_?" His lover hisses, and Punk closes his eyes. He's too tired, too hurt to deal with this, he needs to sleep, he needs to rest, he needs to recover. It's more than likely a futile hope, but he does _hope_ his lover will let him heal a little before getting back to normal.

"I just met him." Punk whispers, and his lover squeezes his shoulder again, firm unyielding pressure that aches, that strangely makes his head hurt even more.

"You work fast... Must be fucking desperate to fuck you when you're all beat up like this." His lover sneers, and Punk holds back a sigh. He deserves this, he has to, there's no other explanation for it. "Fractured skull..." His lover's tone changes suddenly, and he sits in the chair by the bed. "I'm so sorry, baby... I never meant to do this... It's just you drive me crazy. You know better than to rile me up, you know better than to push my buttons. You gotta stop doing that." His lover sighs, and takes up Punk's uninjured hand, his lips brushing over the back of it. "You're so pretty... But you're _so_ stupid, baby." Punk's eyes close, and he lets the words wash over him. He's heard them so often that he believes them maybe ninety percent of the time. He has to be stupid to stick around in this mess; he has to be stupid to be in this mess in the first place. Everything his lover tells him, over and over again, it all makes sense. He is worthless, he is useless, he is unlovable. If he weren't those things, his parents would have cared, if he weren't those things he'd have friends, if he weren't those things he wouldn't be lying in a hospital bed because he did or said something dumb again. "I'll take you home in a few days..." His lover stands, looking to leave.

"Will..." Punk starts talking, but falls silent at the harsh look he receives, he should know better than to make requests of his lover, but he is so _stupid_. His lover scowls at him, and leaves.

The fourth time Punk wakes up the room is dark, the curtains drawn, and Good Samaritan Colt is sitting in the chair by the bed again, his notebook in his hand, his pen moving over it rapidly.

"Hello?" Punk groans, and Colt turns to him, a smile on his face. Punk's confused, he'd expected to wake up alone, he'd expected to never see his neighbour again, but there he is, writing away at something.

"Hey! I didn't think you'd wake up. The doctors said you'd been sleeping, that it was good for your recovery process." He sets the notebook down, tucks the pen behind his ear, and pours a glass of water for Punk. "You must be thirsty... Here." He holds the glass to Punk's lips, letting him sip at it. "How you feeling?"

"Shitty." Punk forces a smile to his lips, it hurts, he's pretty sure that his lip has to be split, and Colt smiles awkwardly at him.

"Yeah... You're pretty beat up... Look, it's not my place-"

"Don't, okay... Just don't." Punk sighs, and the Good Samaritan nods, a frown on his face. Punk isn't used to concern, isn't used to people being interested in him, people ignore him; it's the way it's always been. The only person who ever pays him any attention is his lover, and that's not often very good for him, but this is the first time he's ended up in hospital because of that attention.

"Okay." Colt frowns, and sets the glass down. There's a worried set to his lips, behind his glasses there's more than a little concern in his eyes.

"What're you writing?" Punk changes the subject quickly. He doesn't want to deal with Colt's worry. He's only just met the guy; he doesn't want to burden him with problems. Problems that are solely of Punk's own doing, if only he weren't so stupid, so selfish, then there'd be no problems in his life.

"Some new material..." Colt smiles awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Material?" Punk can't say he's sure what Colt means, and he's kind of interested, but he probably shouldn't pry, should probably let Colt get on with whatever it is he's doing.

"Uh-huh... I'm a stand-up... Well, I'm trying to be, the legwork is hard... Struggling comedian here." He laughs, and Punk tries to nod, briefly forgetting his broken head, but the little movement he managed reminded him swiftly, making him whimper in pain. "Hey, shh..." Colt's fingers rest on Punk's forehead gently, almost stroking his skin. "You gotta take it easy." Something impossibly sad flits through Colt's eyes, and Punk stares up at him. "He fucked you up pretty bad, didn't he?" He asks softly, and Punk says nothing, he just lies there staring at Colt. "Sorry... Not my place, right?"

"_No_." Punk mutters softly, his eyes drifting closed. The almost touches of Colt's fingers against his forehead is probably the most careful handling Punk's ever had in his life. He shouldn't be enjoying this though; he shouldn't even be talking to this man. Colt's job of Good Samaritan was finished once he took Punk to the hospital. "Are you funny?" Punk feels like an asshole for asking that question, wants to take it back as soon as he voices it, but all Colt does is laugh.

"Once you can laugh without messing with your head, I'll tell you a joke, and you can tell me." He sounds so utterly like he means that, but Punk can't quite believe it. No one sticks around, no one wants him around them for too long, _everyone_ leaves him, everyone but his lover, he's the only person who bothers with Punk on a regular basis, he's the only person Punk has left.

The first time Punk wakes up in his own apartment, he feels cold. The hospital had been warm, the bed had been narrow, but there hadn't been that spring digging in his back, and the air had been warm. The worst thing about his city is that it's cold in Spring, its cold all year round but Summer. In the Summer, it's warm, in the Summer, it's hotter than hell, but at least it means that Punk isn't cold for a change. He wasn't surprised to wake up alone. His lover will be elsewhere. He'll stop by when he has time, or the inclination to do so, but Punk will never know when that will be. It's then as he lies in his cold bed, that Punk realises he's not been at work for days, that he's not called them, that he's very likely been fired. If he's been fired there's no way he can pay the rent for his apartment, and without this apartment, he's homeless. He's no friends that would let him stay with them. There were people once, the people Punk loves, but he's not allowed to talk to them, his lover doesn't like them, so he stays away. It's safer for Punk, it's safer for them, it's _safer_ in general.

The second time Punk wakes up in his own apartment, his lover is sitting on the bed beside him, his cock in his hand, the head aimed at Punk's face. The strands of cum that land on Punk are warm, and slimy. He lies staring at his lover, at a loss for words. His head feels full of glass, and there's liquid sluggishly seeping from his ears with a strange ticklish sensation, rather like the feeling of his lover's on his face.

"I need to call my boss." It's the first thing Punk says, and his lover looks furious. Punk knows it was the wrong thing to say, but his brain is fuzzy, it hurts to think, it hurts to breathe but he needs to tell his boss something.

"I called them, told them you were attacked by some kids... You're off with sick pay. It'll cover the rent on this box." His lover stands, tucks his cock away, and leaves the room, then the apartment, all without wiping his cum from Punk's face.

The third time Punk wakes up in his apartment, he's cold, he's sore, and he's so very hungry. He manages to pull on some clothes, manages to find out there's no food in the place, manages to pull on his shoes, grab his wallet and keys, before managing to get out of his apartment. As he slithers down the door, to collapse in a heap on the floor, Punk realises he's lost count of how many times he's passed out over the years.

"Uh..." Punk wakes up in some unfamiliar place, the smell, new and barely lived in gives him an idea of where he is though. "Colt?"

"Hey... What the fuck were you doing?" Colt and a glass of water appear before him. Punk smiles awkwardly, his head is killing him, and talking seems like a lot of effort, sipping at the water does too, but he needs that so he endures.

"Hungry... I've got no food in, so I was gonna get some." Punk mumbles, leaning back against the couch's arm, his eyes closing. It's stupid to feel so safe with Colt, but so far in the short time they've known each other, he's been nothing but nice to Punk. He really is a Good Samaritan it seems.

"You can manage soup right?" Colt asks, and Punk makes some kind of agreeing noise. He thinks he can handle soup at least. "Stay there, no wandering off." Punk doesn't answer, just lies there with his eyes closed, trying very hard to not think, thinking hurts, even breathing hurts, but it's his own fault. He shouldn't have riled his lover up in the first place, and he shouldn't have left his apartment now, that'd been another of the so many moments of stupidity he has.

Months pass, Spring bleeds into Summer, and finally Punk's skull seems to have knit itself back together somewhat. If nothing else, he feels better for the warmer weather. His relationship has been _strained_ since the day his lover fractured his skull, but surprisingly, there's been no violence since then, and for that, Punk has been grateful, but it's not like it was in the beginning, it's nothing like that at all. It's less a relationship and more like being his whore than usual, there's not even the half-assed attempts at conversation anymore, all that it is now, is his lover coming over, fucking Punk and leaving. Punk had known that getting involved with a married man was stupid, had known it from the first time his lover had forgotten to take his wedding ring off, but he was in love with the man, he'd forgiven him, had endured because he was in love, because he believed the words he said. Those words have been losing their grip though, the power they'd once had is slipping, and that's all down to Colt.

His neighbour has been a strange influence on him. In spending time with him, Punk has been spending time with the people his lover had shut out of his life. The people he'd called friends before he'd fallen so deep with his lover are slowly creeping back into his life. For the first time in years, he'd spent time with his sisters, and he'd forgotten how good it was to be surrounded by love. They'd made him promise to not leave them in the dark so long again, and agreeing had been so very easy. He doesn't want to be without them, not again, _never_ again.

Colt also gave him new friends, Colt's friends from the comedy circuit, his friends from his childhood, people Punk liked, people who seemed to like Punk. His social circle has grown, and it's good to have one again. His work colleagues have even seemed more interested in him, have commented on how much better he's been looking since he came back to work, and that's all down to Colt, all down to his friend. A friend who Punk thinks he might be falling for. He's suspected it for a while, but it only really became obvious to him that he probably feels more for Colt tonight, because for the first time in all the time Punk's known Colt, he went out on a date.

All day, well all afternoon, Colt had been flitting around his apartment, Punk sitting on the couch watching him, giving his opinion on which shirt he should wear, feeling maudlin. He'd been jealous then, and Punk knows he's still jealous now. He wants someone to fuss over what to wear for him, to be panicking over where to take him, to be obsessing over how to act around him. It's pathetic, but Punk's never been taken on a date before, _never_. He's had hook-ups, and one of those turned into his lover, but he's never been dated. It's a silly thing to be jealous of, but Punk can't help it. He's jealous and that's all there is to it.

"Here you are, whore." His lover sounds angry, his voice low and clipped. Punk looks up from the book he's reading, and almost wishes he hadn't. His lover is swaying, clearly drunk. "Get over here, on your knees." It's stupid, but Punk stays where he is, and he can't say he's surprised when his lover storms over, and throws a punch at Punk's face. The crunch of his nose breaking is a familiar pain, he's broken it before, and Punk has no doubts that his lover will break it again. "Stupid little bitch, I've been so _fucking_ nice to you lately... Ungrateful whore!" At the sound of his lover's pants' zipper opening, Punk closes his eyes, and waits. He knows what's going to happen, knows it's better to let it go. His mind is carefully blank, carefully focussed on anything else, worrying if he'd bleeding on the book in his lap. It's not his book, he'd borrowed it from one of Colt's friends, he can't give a tainted book back. "That's it... Open that cunt mouth of yours... Good boy." His lover's cock fills his throat, and Punk is dragged from his concerns about the book back to the present, staring up at his lover. "Stupid little bitch, you know no one's ever going to give a fuck about you? All you have is me, all you _deserve_ is me, you know that." The thrusts into his throat are rough and painful, but the touches to his face and hair are gentle. "See, _this_ is where you belong, with my cock down your throat, or in your ass. All you are is a hole for me to fuck. It's all your good for, baby." His lover smiles down at him, and Punk wants to look away, wants to argue that he's doing okay, that he's got friends, that he's loved. His sisters still love him, they still care about him, that they miss him, but these words are old and familiar, words he's heard, words he's said a thousand times. _Worthless_, _useless_, _unwanted_.

The next morning, Punk wakes up alone, it's early, maybe five a.m., and he can hear Colt struggling to open his door. Punk picks himself up from the floor, sparing a brief glance for the latest bloodstain to his carpet, and opens his front door, letting the light from his apartment make it easier for Colt to see.

"Hey Punk... Did I wa- What the fuck happened to you? Did he..." Colt's jovial, tipsy rambling falls into a mess of fury and concern when he looks at Punk, and Punk fidgets uncomfortably under his gaze. He didn't want to have a conversation; all he'd wanted to do was provide enough light for Colt to get his door open.

"You need some help getting the door open?" Punk doesn't answer the questions, instead he changes the subject, his voice thick and pained. He needs to reset his nose, he'd not had time to whilst his lover was still there, and when he'd finished Punk had simply passed out where he'd been tossed. The pain from the break is dull and familiar, and the way if makes his voice sound is almost more familiar to Punk than his normal speaking voice.

"Punk..." Colt's hand hovers near Punk's face, between the dim lighting, and his glasses, it's impossible for Punk to tell what expression is on his face though. "Come in... Let me get you cleaned up." Colt manages to open his door, and he holds it open. "C'mon, it's okay." He smiles softly, and Punk hesitates, before taking his keys, locking his door, and following Colt inside.

Colt's apartment finally has a smell, it finally feels lived in, and Punk's uncomfortably comfortable in this place. He follows Colt to the bathroom, not really feeling up to arguing.

"Thanks." Punk mutters, as he takes the wet cloth Colt offers him.

"You wanna talk about it?" Colt perches on the edge of the bathtub, and Punk shakes his head, concentrating on wiping his blood from his face. His nose is tender, swollen, and he thinks this time its going to sit squint, he's not sure it's going to set as straight as it once was. "You know..." Colt trails off, and stands, leaving the bathroom. Punk meets his own eyes in the mirror, silently condemning his stupidity again. If he'd just been less stupid he wouldn't be in this state. If he'd just gone to his lover when he asked him to, he wouldn't have deserved the punch that broke his nose.

It's late in the Summer when Colt extends the offer of coming to a show, and Punk had agreed readily. His lover on vacation with his family out of state, so there's no worries about him coming back unexpectedly. Colt had knocked on his front door, and looked strangely nervous, dressed in some nice shirt, looking far better than Punk. He'd worn his nicest clothes, because there's a foolish little part of Punk that wants this to be a date, and not just his friend inviting him out to watch what are _mutual_ friends perform, then go out and eat. It doesn't matter that Punk wants it to be a date, it doesn't matter that he wants Colt to be interested, it doesn't matter because Punk is worthless, unlovable, and wanting more will ruin the one friendship he has.

Punk treasures the memory of that date that wasn't a date, Colt never asks him out like that again, never is it just the two of them, but their friendship grows. Whilst they get closer, Punk knows he's keeping a distance between them, he knows it's for Colt sake, and safety, as much as his own. His lover has been more aggressive lately, and he doesn't want there to be anything that could set him off unexpectedly, _more_ unexpectedly. It's almost like Punk's living two lives. One where he's a cowering, terrified, stupid whore, and the other where he has friends, he has opinions; he's a real person with thoughts, and hopes, and dreams. He knows which life he'd like to lead, he _knows_ which life is a real one, but he's no idea how to make it his. So he keeps going as best he can with this horrible duality. Slowly letting Colt grow more and more important to him, slowly, _stupidly_ falling more and more in love.

"You wanna help me decorate my tree?" Punk asks once December comes around. It's a brutally masochist habit, but every year he puts up a Christmas tree, like a cruel reminder of every Christmas he's spent alone, every Christmas he's been disappointed. When he was a child it was because there was no money for presents, then it was because he was working, then it was because there was no one left because of his lover. This year he might be able to spend Christmas with Colt, with someone who likes him. Even if Colt's Jewish and more than likely not interested in Christmas, it'll be better than spending another year on his own.

"You know, Jews don't celebrate Christmas, Punk." Colt smiles at him, and Punk nods. He doesn't really _celebrate _it either, it's just a habit, just a reminder of everything he can't have, and this year he can add Colt to that list.

"I know... But still-"

"Sure, I'll help, but I got _no_ artistic talent so if the bits I do look like shit don't blame me." Colt laughs, and Punk smiles at him. It's as he's pushing open the door to his apartment that he realises this is the first time he's let Colt in there. He almost panics, almost wants to throw Colt out. This place isn't somewhere he wants to bring his friend, this place isn't somewhere Punk's happy, and he doesn't want to share his unhappiness with Colt.

"Uh... C'mon in." Punk mumbles, and steps aside, letting Colt into the living room, cursing how bare it looks, how unlived in it looks compared to Colt's place, where life has left it's debris everywhere. In this room, there's nothing much but the TV, the coffee table, and the couch. The other things Punk had at one stage or another have either been broken, or bloodied. He's been through more than a few tables in his time in that apartment. The few things he'd wanted to keep over the years have all fallen victim to his lover's rage.

"It's _minimalist_." Colt smiles awkwardly, and Punk shrugs, dragging the box with the artificial tree in it out of the closet. "I always figured you'd have more _stuff_..." Colt seems almost sad at the lack of things in Punk's apartment, and he can't really work out why. It's not Colt's problem, it's Punk's, no one is at fault but him, as usual.

"Yeah, well..." Punk shrugs again, coming back with the box of decorations. Some of the baubles in this box are as old as he is, and he's always been grateful that his lover never visits at Christmas. Even in the beginning, even when it was good he'd always left Punk alone over the Holidays. His family were, and are, far more important than Punk, which he understands, which for the first year ever he's grateful for. It's stupid, but a part of Punk had always thought that if they'd spent Christmas together it would be good; it would be nice, _romantic_ maybe.

"Fuck me..." Colt mutters as he opens the tree box. "How the fuck does this turn into a tree?" Punk laughs at him, and comes over, helping pull the branches out of their plastic bags.

"It's easy, the hooks go in the holes, and then _bam_ tree." Punk smiles, looking up to see Colt watching him carefully. He feels horribly uncomfortable under that gaze; it makes him feel exposed, and fidgety. "C'mon, the ones marked 'E' go on the bottom, this bit 'A' is the top." Punk holds the top of the tree up, and Colt nods vaguely, muttering darkly about how it'd be much easier to go buy a real tree. Punk's _never_ had a real tree, he's _always_ wanted one, but never saw the point in having one for just himself, so his trusty fake tree has been used every year since he bought it.

"You sure you wanna decorate it?" Colt asks once they've assembled the tree, he looks rather pleased with himself, sitting on the couch, looking at the tree with a smug expression. "I think it looks pretty good as it is."

"If you don't wanna help, you don't have to." Punk almost snaps, and a part of him expects Colt to leave, or to raise his hand, _anything _but what he does, which is laugh.

"C'mere, sit. Tell me the creative vision for it." Colt pats the cushion beside him, and pulls the decorations box closer. Punk sits awkwardly, the spot Colt's sat in is his space on the couch, and the other cushion is where his lover sits. For some pitifully fearful reason Punk's never sat on this cushion before, but it feels much the same as the other one, and his reason seems foolish to him.

"There's no creative vision, Colt." Punk says quietly, almost wanting to snatch the box from him. The decorations are old and shabby, he knows that, and he pretty much regrets asking Colt to help him with this. There'd been a part of him that'd hoped it would be fun, but instead it's been nothing but stressful for Punk. It's such a stupid facet of himself that he's sharing, and somehow for almost a year he's managed to keep Colt in his life, he doesn't want to chase him away by revealing how very unintelligent he can be.

"So what goes on first?" Colt asks eventually, handing the box to Punk. Punk shakes his head, and smiles at Colt, but he doesn't think it's a very happy looking smile. The expression on Colt's face suggests that Punk looks far more miserable than he should. "Lights, right? I read somewhere that lights should go on first."

"I don't..." The string of lights Punk had once long ago had been destroyed when his lover had shown up drunk one year at New Year's. He'd never bought a new set, didn't see the point in it. Long ago Punk stopped trying to replace the things he lost to his lover.

"No lights? Right, coat, let's go. I might not do this whole _Christmas _thing, but even I know that you need lights on a Christmas tree." Colt laughs, and Punk follows him out, bemused by his friend's insistence.

Colt had bought the lights, had refused to let Punk pay for them, had even carried them back to the apartment building, but he'd had to leave Punk to decorate himself. He'd been booked for a show across town, and had to leave, so Punk had decorated the tree alone. He thinks it looks nicer with the lights, but that might just be him deluding himself. He does that so very often, but that's understandable, the stupid are given to delusions, but these little twinkling lights are like tiny reminders of the light Colt's friendship has brought to Punk's dark life over this year.

A few days later, Colt comes over, knocking on the door, asking if he can come in. Punk can't think of a good reason to refuse, so they end up on the couch, looking at the tree, the lights are switched on, and it's far prettier looking than it is with them off.

"Here." Colt hands him a present, and Punk looks at it mildly. "It's not much, but you need presents under your tree." Punk nods, and sets the gift down under the tree, something warm filling his chest. He can't remember the last present someone gave him, Christmas or otherwise.

"Thank you... I-"

"Don't worry about it." Colt waves Punk off, and sighs, fidgeting on the couch. "Punk... I need to talk to you." He says suddenly, and Punk looks up, the tone Colt just spoke in was so heavy, so leaden that Punk almost wants him to never say what he's going to.

"Sure..." But Punk has always known it was coming, the moment where Colt decides he's had enough of Punk and leaves him alone. He's not worth anyone's time, the only person who can put up with him is his lover, he knows that. Colt sighs, and takes his glasses off, rubbing at the bridge of his nose.

"Why do you stay with him?" Colt asks, and Punk stares at him, of all the things on the list of things Colt might say to him, that hadn't even charted. "I know he hurts you, I know he fractured your skull that night... I've fucking _heard_ the shit he says to you, the shit he _does_ to you... Leave him, Punk... _Please_. Just leave him." Colt moves closer to Punk, taking his hands as he talks, and by the time he finishes, his thumbs are stroking Punk's skin gently.

"I can't." Punk mutters softly. He can only hope Colt won't question that, because the reason for why Punk can't leave merely shows how pathetic he is. If Colt knew that Punk can't leave a married man who beats and abuses him, because he knows he deserves nothing better, it'll show Colt that he shouldn't be wasting his time with him.

"_Why_?" Colt hisses, his eyes filled with fire. "You deserve so much more than this... Punk... My Punkers, you deserve someone who _loves_ you." Punk stares at Colt.

"No one loves me... No one _can_." Punk mutters quietly, and Colt shakes his head, opening his mouth to argue. "It's not self-pity, its self-realisation, Colt. I've never had a relationship that wasn't like this. Fuck, no one's ever even wanted to take me on a date before." Colt snorts, and looks away from Punk, something dark in his eyes.

"I took you on a date... I didn't realise you didn't know it was one though." He sounds miserable, and Punk stares at him, at his hands cradled in Colt's own. He remembers the night Colt took him to that comedy club, remembers Colt taking him out to dinner afterwards, just the two of them. He'd wanted it to be a date so very badly, but at the time he'd convinced himself that it was just Colt being his normal friendly self.

"I didn't." Punk turns his hands in Colt so that he can grip Colt's fingers. "I didn't..." He squeezes, and Colt laughs pitifully, shaking his head, still not looking at Punk.

"I figured you weren't interested. I mean, why would you be? You're you, and you're with this cunt... _Why_ are you with him? Don't give me this I deserve it bullshit, because it is bullshit." Colt finally looks at Punk, and there's a contradictory part of him that wishes Colt would look away again. The weight of his earnest gaze is too much for Punk to bear.

"He's the only person I have left." Punk tries, but he's not sure who he's justifying his relationship with right then. "I've tried to leave him, and he... He _threatens_ me, threatens the people I had to push away." Colt sighs, and Punk looks away, stares down at his carpet, at a bloodstain he never could scrub out. "I can't go to the cops, he's one of them, they won't believe me. I'm stuck..."

"I'll help you." Colt squeezes Punk's hands gently, then lets go of them, using the freed hand to catch Punk's chin. "I know some real sharp lawyers, some people who can help you... We have your medical records... I can take pictures, we can get you examined by a doctor. Just cause he's a cop, doesn't mean he's above the law, and _this_ is illegal. Let me help you."

"Why? Do this for me?" Punk tries to look away, but Colt's hand is still cradling his jaw. There's no pressure in his hold, just his fingers lightly resting on Punk's skin, but he can't move, he's too afraid to, but it's a new fear, one he's never had before.

"I think..." Colt purses his lips, and takes his glasses off, looking Punk dead in the eye. "I think I've fallen in love with you." Colt's voice, though quiet is sure, and Punk stares at him.

"_Think_?" He whispers, and Colt nods, his hands cupping Punk's face.

"I don't know you as well as I want to... You won't let me get close enough, but I'll wait for you to be ready. I'll wait as long as it takes for you to be ready to let me love you." Colt strokes Punk's cheeks gently, and he sighs. "I thought you should know, but you look so lost. Did I fuck up?" Colt's thumb caresses Punk's eyebrow, and without thought, Punk leans forward. "Hey... Hey, now..." Colt smiles at him, leaning back a little. "Don't do something you'll regret." He says softly, and Punk shakes his head. He wants this now; regrets can be dealt with later.

"I don't regret things... Lemme have this." Punk leans forward again, and Colt stares at him, a slight smile on his lips.

"You're a very difficult man to refuse." He whispers before he leans forward too, their lips meeting in a kiss that's far softer, far sweeter, far more mutual than any other Punk's had in his lifetime. It's only broken by Colt's cell beeping, and he pulls away, something mournful in his eyes. "I've a show... You wanna come?" He looks hopeful, but Punk thinks he needs some time alone. He got things to think about, things he needs to consider. If what Colt said is true, then _maybe_ every word his _lover_ has said to him is untrue, maybe every shitty things that's happened to him is just something shitty that's happened, and not a sign that Punk's utterly undeserving of love after all.

"I... Next time, okay?" Punk smiles, and Colt stands, putting his glasses back on. His hand cups Punk's cheek briefly, a soft smile on his lips.

"I'll hold you to that." He leaves, and Punk sits very still on the couch, staring at his tree, and the solitary present under it.

The hand in his hair, pulling him off the couch wakes Punk up from the nap he was having, and the scent of his lover's alcohol tainted breath fills his lungs.

"What the fuck is that under that tree, whore?" He snarls, and Punk stares at him, unsure if it's wiser to be quiet or to answer. "A fucking present? Who the hell would waste money on a dumb slut like you?" His lover's hand tightens in his hair, and Punk freezes, he's no idea what to do in this situation, but he never does. He truly is as stupid as his lover tells him he is.

"The neighbour..." Punk croaks, and his lover laughs, dropping Punk to the floor.

"Open it." He growls, kicking Punk's stomach once, the toe of his shoe digging in just under Punk's ribs. "Let's see what your little _friend_ got you." Punk's hands are shaking as he reaches for the little parcel. He hopes in that moment it's something cheap, that it's something impersonal, that it's something that won't set his lover off worse. "Hurry up, bitch, I ain't got all day." His lover kicks him again, and Punk opens the parcel, unwilling to tear the paper more than he has to, he knows that once this is over he's going to rewrap it so he can open it again on Christmas day. "A book?" His lover snorts in disdain, and Punk tries very hard to keep a smile from his face. It is nothing more than a cheap paperback, but it's a book Punk had mentioned wanting to read months ago. Punk closes his eyes, and slips the book back in the paper. There's a wordless growl, and it's then that Punk realises that he's done something stupid. He'd lost that battle against a smile, he can feel it on his lips, but it's only there a short moment before his lover grabs his hair and smashes his fist into Punk's face. "You're _nothing_... That shitty fucking book is nothing but a cheap bribe to get a cheap whore in bed." Something inside of Punk clicks in that moment, something inside of him remembers Colt's hand on his face, remembers his soft words, and Punk stands, forces himself to his feet. "Whore?" His lover snarls, and Punk holds back a cringe. Colt said he'd wait, and it might take Punk forever to be ready if he doesn't get started now.

"No." He says firmly, and his lover grabs the front of his shirt, hauling him close.

"_No_?" He laughs, and Punk stares at him, ignoring the pain in his face, ignoring the anger being thrown at him, the only thing on his mind is Colt's voice, warm, soft and gentle, feeling him feeling _safe_.

"No." His voice is firm, and unshaken. He's surprised, but pleased about that, he sounds like he means this as much as he feels he does. "Not anymore, I'm done. Leave." His lover laughs, and throws Punk back against the tree. It crashes to the floor, leaving Punk in a sprawled mess on top of it. He's sure he heard some of the ornaments break, and a little part of him breaks with them. These trinkets were worthless everyone else, but so very precious to him.

"You sonvabitch!" His lover growls, and lunges. The beating is worse than usual, almost as bad as the night he fractured Punk's skull, but he does leave, leaves with a promise to never return, that he was through with trash like Punk. It hurts, the beating, and the insults, but beneath the pain, beneath the aches, Punk _finally_ feels free.

"Hey..." Colt's voice is a soft surprise, and Punk moans quietly. It feels like he's lying in a bed, which hadn't expected, because he'd passed out on the floor of his apartment, thinking that he should get up, and shut the door because his _ex-lover_ left it open. The pain from the last beating radiating throughout his body, but there's something else inside him to counter that, something light, something free. Last night he'd done the one thing he should have done years ago but didn't because he was afraid. He's still afraid, kind of at least, but it's a different fear, it's finally not the fear of saying the wrong thing and getting the shit kicked out of him for it. It's the fear of losing the warmth of Coltat his side.

"Hi." Punk's voice is rough, and before he can move to grab the glass of water beside the bed, it's raised to his lips by Colt's hand.

"Slowly." Colt murmurs, and Punk sips at the water. "So last night?" He says softly, and Punk stops drinking, laying back down against the pillows to look up at him. The light is reflecting off his glasses, and Punk frowns, reaching up and taking them off. "I need those to see." Colt laughs, and Punk smiles at him.

"I'm right here, nothing else to look at." He smiles, and Colt shakes his head, lying back down beside Punk. "Last night... I told him it's over. You said to me you'd wait for me, that you think you're in love with me." Punk sighs, and moves closer, a tiny little bit closer, Colt's arms wraps around his shoulders, his hand resting on his bare skin.

"Yeah... I probably shouldn't have laid that on you then though... Bad timing." Colt's fingers move in a slow caress, and Punk moves just a shade closer.

"No... Good timing. You gave me the motivation to get rid of him, I... This." Punk gestures to his bruised face. "This was because I told him it was over." Punk turns to Colt, and smiles, even though it's small it still hurts his split lip to wear it. "I don't know how long it'll take, Colt, but if you're willing to wait, I'd like to try." Colt grins at him, and Punk closes the last of the space between them, resting against Colt's side fully, his head on his shoulder.

"Me too." Colt sounds unbelievably happy, and there's a bitter little voice in the back of Punk's mind that's telling him that it's unbelievable, because no one will ever want him as anything more than a hole to fuck, and body to beat. "I'll wait for you, you're worth it, _so_ very worth it." Colt murmurs, and the conviction in his words cancels a little of that voice in Punk's head out.

"We're in your place?" Punk asks, not commenting on what Colt said, not wanting to get into it just yet.

"Uh-huh." Colt pulls away, and gets off the bed. "You okay to stand, or do you want me to carry you?" He picks up his glasses, putting them back on, and Punk stands on unsteady legs. Colt's arm is around him holding him up before Punk can even think to take a step. "Close your eyes." Colt tells him, guiding him slowly out of the bedroom. The voice in Punk's head is screaming that walking around with his eyes closed is a stupid idea, but there's another, _louder_ voice that's telling him that Colt won't hurt him, that this will be okay. "Sit. Keep your eyes closed." Colt settles him on the couch and then moves away. "Open them." In front of him is a Christmas tree, a real Christmas tree, covered in the ornaments from the fake one in Punk's apartment, some of them looking like they've been glued back together. Whilst they might look old and ugly in the cold light of day, in that moment with the curtains drawn, and the Christmas tree lights on, they look beautiful.

"When..." Punk can't find the words, can't even begin to think of what he wants to say. He's utterly dumbfounded. He'd expected all of these trinkets to be thrown in the garbage, not hanging on a tree, a real pine fresh tree. They might be damaged, they might be broken, they might be worthless, but Colt made whole, he made them beautiful. There's a metaphor for Punk there, at least he thinks there is, because right now he's damaged, he's broken, he's _worthless_, but he'd like for Colt to try and make him whole, to try and make him beautiful. Colt sits beside him, his arm snaking around Punk's shoulders once more, making it easier for Punk to curl up against him.

"Merry Christmas Punk." Colt says softly, and for the first time in years, Punk thinks it will be.

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><p><em>My Christmas present to me (maybe?) this year is a collection of fics inspired by my favourite Christmas Carols.<em>

_First up we have **God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen**. I love the traditional Carols, and this one is my favourite. :3_

_Not much is set in stone for these fics - so if you'd like to fire me a song and pairing combo in a PM, I'll have a listen and see what I can come up with._

**_You can't give me an apple _****_for Christmas _****_like my students are already doing , but you can give me a review! ;)_**


	2. Little Drummer Boy

_Warnings: Set in the continuity of **Chasing the Wind **and it's sequel _**_Walk in the Snow_**_. __2nd person Colt PoV, AU (heavily AU, no wrestling, the S.E.S is a real cult) slash (Colt/Punk), _minor het (Dean Ambrose/OC),_ profanity, smut, brief mentions of eating disorder._

* * *

><p>"This the SES?" The child at the door is skinny, with a mess of reddish brown curls hanging too long in his face, looking lank and unwashed. You stare at him, and he stares straight back, his narrow shoulders squared, his mouth set in a mean little line. He looks every bit the tough little street kid, until you look at the slightly miserable lost look in his eyes.<p>

"Uh-huh, it is." You tell him, and he nods, curling in on himself some. You're not sure how old this kid is, but by looking at him, you'd make him around Tabby's age, so no more than fourteen. It's not the sort of night for a kid like this to be out on his own. Tonight of all nights, kids should be at home, safe and warm in bed, but by looking at him, that's not an option for this kid, even on Christmas Eve he's out in the cold.

"I heard that... Look, I heard that you people let kids like me stay. Is there room?" He shoves his hands in his pockets, and you step aside, letting him into the hall.

"I'll need a name, kid." You tap the logbook, and the kid glares at you. You try for a kindly smile, and curse the fact that you're on door duties on your own tonight, Punk or even Serena would have this kid eating out of their hands. Technically, you're not alone Tabby thinks she's helping, but she's only a kid herself, and fell asleep an hour ago. You didn't have the heart to wake her up and send her to bed, so you left her on the couch. If anything you're glad of her company, Punk's not here, he's stuck in an airport in a city that's miles away, which is why Tabby's helping in the first place. You're both worried about him. It's the first time he's been anywhere on his own for this long. It doesn't matter how many texts and phone calls he makes, doesn't matter how many times he's assured you both he's fine, that he is eating, neither one of you is going to be fully satisfied till he's home, and you can smother him in hugs and kisses. Telling Tabby about the illness that had almost killed him had been a big decision, one made after _years_ of discussion. You'd wanted her to know for a long time, but Punk hadn't wanted her to see him as weak, hadn't wanted to tell her till she was an adult, so you compromised, and told her on her thirteenth birthday, after the Bat Mitzvah she'd insisted on having. You've not raised her with any religion, but she'd wanted one for reasons you know she's told Punk, and you can only guess at, because neither of them will tell you. If you're honest, you think it was probably something to do with wanting to feel closer to you, she's already talked about what tattoos she'd like when she's older. Part of you would like to talk her out of getting any, but there's a _larger_ part that thinks the idea of your daughter and your husband having matching tattoos is cute.

"Daddy?" Her head pokes around the door of the main room, and the scruffy kid in front of you stares at her. "Who's this?"

"Dean... Dean Ambrose." The kid mutters, and you scrawl his name down, holding back the smile that wants to break out on your face, and the surge of fatherly protectiveness that's rising in your gut. This kid is definitely staring at _your_ daughter, and it's making you mildly uncomfortable, but she's getting to that age where boys are going to start being a problem. She's not going to be your little Tabby-Cat forever, she is going to grow up, and you're going to have to deal with that.

"C'mon then, Dean-Dean Ambrose, let's get you fed." Tabby waves him over, and you follow along behind them. "So how old are you?" Tabby asks, rooting through the pantry, pulling out a can of soup. "Daddy, make him a sandwich will you?" You nod, and figure that the old staple of tuna salad will work. It's Tabby and her Papa's favourite, so you've perfected the art of making the best tuna salad sandwich in the World.

"Fourteen..." Dean mutters, and you feel slightly smug that your guess had been on the money. If he were here Punk would be laughing at the little smirk on your face.

"Ooo... Snap." Tabby laughs, Dean-Dean Ambrose smiles at her nervously, and you chop the tomato a little more viciously than necessary. Right about now Punk would be in hysterics laughing at you. He finds your over-protective mother hen tendencies far too entertaining, and somehow manages to miss the humour in his own helicopter-mom leanings.

"So you live here?" Dean-Dean Ambrose says, and Tabby makes an agreeing noise.

"Uh-huh, my parents kind of own this place... My Papa is the founder of the movement, and _that_ is Colt, my Daddy, book-keeper, marketer, and sandwich maker extraordinaire." It always kind of floors you how proud Tabby is to be Punk and yours daughter. How she genuinely celebrates the day her adoption was finalised with more enthusiasm than any other special day. When you'd found her in that alley, nearly nine years ago, you'd not known how easily she'd transform your life, but you'd never change a single thing that's happened. Your life is good, impossibly good.

"Papa and Daddy?" Dean says, sounding slightly confused. "Your mom split?"

"Pff... I'm adopted, that woman is nothing to me. My parents are here, my _family_ is here." Tabby pours the soup into a bowl, and you set that sandwich down on the table beside it. As you do, your cell rings, and you step out of the kitchen to answer it. You know without looking who it'll be, and you don't want to embarrass Tabby by being too sappy with her Papa in front of people _again._

"_I'm stuck._" Punk sounds annoyed, and you close your eyes, listening to his irritated huff.

"Hello Punkers." He laughs in your ear, and you smile, picturing him in your mind. He'll be wearing that indulgent catlike grin he has, his eyes barely slits of deep green, above that beautiful smile.

"_It's snowing like a motherfucker, and I'll be stuck here till after Christmas at this rate... Colt, I do not want to miss Christmas._" He sighs, and your heart clenches. It's Christmas Eve, he'd hoped to get home by now, but if it's snowing as badly as he says, the airport will be snowed in, and he'll be, as he said, stuck.

"I don't want you to miss Christmas either, but there's nothing we can do about the weather. It is what it is. I want you home, but I can't magic you here." You laugh, and he sighs again. "Where are you?"

"_The airport... I'm not missing Christmas. I'll work something out... I think I'm due a Christmas miracle._" He laughs, and you have a vision of him trying to charm the people in the airport into getting him home somehow. You'd love for him to be here, but if he can't get back, he can't get back.

"You been-"

"_Yes, I've been eating... I swear, I'm eating like a pregnant woman cause of how fucking cold it is... There's gonna be so much more of me to love when I get home..._" He sounds annoyed, and you want to be able to hold him, to touch him, to draw him out of this mood, because you know nothing gets him out of a mood quite like being held in your arms.

"Hmm... Good, if there's more of you, you'll be warmer. I might get some of the blankets for a change." You tell him, and he laughs, his irritation drifting away with that happy little sound.

"_Asshole... If I can make it home I'll let you know, okay?_" Punk sighs again, and you smile at the wall in front of you. You want him home, but if he can't make it, then you suppose you'll manage somehow. It'll be the first Christmas your family's split up, but you suppose you and Tabby will be okay with just patients, members, the kids from the foster home and your new arrival.

"Okay... Oh... Uh, is there any room next door?" You don't think that this Ambrose kid should stay in the main building, he's a kid, he should be over in the foster home with the staff there, but you think they're full up. You could check in the morning, but Punk's on the phone, and he'll know, he _always_ knows.

"_Nope, all six beds are full... Why?_" He sounds interested, and you can't say you're surprised by that. The little foster home you set up beside the main building is something of a pet project for Punk. He keeps a close eye on it, had vetted, and re-vetted the staff a million times before choosing the team over there, and it does good work. You're proud of it, and you _know_ Punk is too.

"Some kid showed up at the door, like an hour ago. Fourteen, looks like he's been roughing it for a while." Punk makes a tsk-ing sound, and you desperately want him home in that moment. He'd have this problem resolved by now, he'd have this Ambrose kid set up somewhere in the building, and have started on getting things sorted for him.

"_On Christmas Eve... Hmm... Let him sleep in the member's dorm till I'm home. Is Kit-Kat still up_?_ I wanna talk to her._" He always sounds like he misses Tabby so much when he's away like this, and you poke your head around the kitchen door.

"Tabby-Cat? Punk wants to talk to you." You call to her, interrupting her conversation with the kid. He's finished his food, and is currently elbow deep in dishwater.

"Papa? Is he okay?" Tabby comes over to you, holding her hand out, and you pass her the phone.

"Ask him yourself." You tell her with a smile, and a ruffle to her hair. She ducks out from under your hand talking to Punk softly, laughing at whatever it is he just said to her. "So she's got you washing dishes? That daughter of mine, she's a slave driver." You laugh, and start drying the cleaned dishes.

"She's real... _Friendly_." Ambrose says quietly. He looks uncomfortable, and tired. You nod at him, smiling awkwardly.

"She gets that from her Papa." You tell him, and the kid nods, looking away. "So, you still hungry or would you like a nice hot shower and some clean clothes?" You're sure there's something that'll fit him in the spare clothes closet upstairs. "You're gonna have to sleep upstairs tonight, can't have you staying with the drunks." He stares at you in confusion, and Tabby comes back into the kitchen, tapping your shoulder with your cell.

"C'mon, you didn't think we were gonna throw you out on your ear again, did you?" She laughs, and Ambrose looks away. "_Men_..." She sighs, and you think that Serena is a bad influence on her. There are times when she sounds too much like her _Big Sis_. "Follow me, I'll show you the bathroom, Daddy'll get you some clothes." You salute Tabby, and she leads Ambrose out of the room, the sound of her giggles drifting back to you. This kid is clearly working on charming your little girl, and you're not entirely sure you approve.

"Thanks for this." Dean says once he's cleaned, and dressed in some pyjamas you found in the closet, with a clean outfit for tomorrow under his arm. "I'll get going tomorrow... I just-"

"Dean, this is what we do, don't thank us." You tell him, and he looks at you in confusion. "We help people who need it, and tomorrow you're not going anywhere, if you don't have anywhere else to go, that is. Tomorrow's Christmas, we'll be having lunch, so there'll be lots of food, plenty for one more... And you never know, maybe Santa will have a present for you under the tree." You smile at him, and Dean shakes his head, an odd wry smile on his face. "C'mon to bed with you, young man. Father Christmas doesn't come unless everyone is asleep." You show him to the bed that's his for the night, and stand watching as he settles himself down.

"You're a strange man, Colt." He mutters, turning his back to you, and you chuckle, before waking up the roaming members who are supposed to take over from you for the night. You check in on Tabby, knocking on her door before opening it out of habit. She's getting older, soon she'll want her privacy, and for her parents to not hover around her all the time, so you're practicing treating her more like an adult.

"You all tucked in Tabby-Cat?" You ask her, perching on the edge of her bed. She smiles slightly at you, and you lean over kissing her forehead. You might be trying to treat her more like a teenager, but you know in your heart that she'll always be that dirty little child that clung to your back, sobbing as you took her home for the first time. It doesn't matter if she's fourteen, or forty, she's always going to be your little girl.

"You think Papa'll make it home? He was rambling about Christmas miracles but really... I think its wishful thinking on his part." She sits up, and wraps her arms around your neck. Sometimes, you think she enjoys being your little girl a lot more than her advancing years would suggest, she still loves getting and giving cuddles.

"This is Punk we're talking about, if there's anyone capable of pulling off the implausible, it's your Papa." You grin at her, and she laughs, settling back down. "Get to sleep, Tabs. If he can, Punkers will be home for Christmas." You kiss her forehead again, and she murmurs a quiet _okay_ before drifting off to sleep.

You curl up in bed alone, missing Punk horribly. He's been away for a week now, and the amount you miss him hasn't lessened in the least, if anything the longer he's gone the more you miss him. You miss his presence during the day, miss it like a phantom limb, but alone in bed at night is the worst. Even if he steals all the covers, and is incapable of not taking up the entire bed, you sleep much better with him sprawled beside you. It takes time, but eventually you manage to fall asleep to thoughts of him.

"Hey." The weight that settles in bed beside you is familiar, gloriously familiar, and without thinking, without really waking up, you turn over and pull Punk to your chest.

"Missed you." You murmur in his ear before kissing him. "Missed you so much... But I thought you were stuck in the snow?" You pepper his face with little kisses, and he laughs softly, a big indulgent smile on his lips.

"I managed to get a flight home, got redirected on some crazy mystery tour, but I couldn't miss Christmas. When I called I was in O'Hare." You kiss him again, pulling him tighter to you. There's a little part of you that's annoyed by his little trick, but you're mostly happy he's home and in your arms. "You and Kit-Kat been good?" He asks when you break the kiss, and you nod, stroking his back. It doesn't feel like he's lost any weight, and even years later that's still a relief. You think there's always going to be a part of you that worries about him fading away, but as the years pass that part gets smaller and smaller. You don't think it'll ever go, not fully but it is shrinking.

"Tabby-Cat's gonna be happy to see you." You murmur, tucking him close to you, feeling him settle against your side. "Not as happy as me... It'll be close, but I love you the most." You kiss the top of his head, and he laughs, nuzzling against you.

"It's not a competition, Colt." He half-mumbles, and makes a softly contented noise. "I'd wanted welcome home sex, but fuck it... I'm too tired. Tomorrow, I want Merry Christmas sex."

"It can be your Christmas present." You laugh, and tilt his face up to you, kissing him gently, before letting him settle back down.

"Pff... You're supposed to get your husband a _real_ present, you dork. Not just sex." He gripes, and you close your eyes, your hand moving slowly along his back. "I got you a present, it's under the tree." He yawns, and presses a kiss to your chest. "Love you, g'night."

"Hmm... Love you most, night, Punkers." He doesn't answer you, just yawns again, and presses another quick kiss to your skin.

Christmas morning, you and Punk have a routine, a busy breakfast making routine, and you're not surprised when he wakes you up to help him with the pancake making. It's a tall order, but you've done it every year for so long now, that you're used to it.

"What the fuck?" Serena is the first person downstairs, and she hugs Punk tightly, clearly surprised to see him. "I thought you were stranded on the other side of the country." She laughs, and Punk grins at her. "Did you know? You _knew_ didn't you? You two are _evil_... Tabs is gonna flip." She laughs, and you join in with her laughter. Tabby is going to be more than a little surprised, but it'll be good for her really. Serena starts making a pot of coffee, and another of tea, her appointed task in this mammoth breakfast feast. "Does this mean I get out of making lunch?"

"Oh no! You are very much needed in the kitchen." Punk tells her. Christmas lunch is a grand palaver, it always takes you, Punk and Serena to make it, sometimes some of the more capable patients are even drafted in to help. This year you think there's a few who'll be up for helping, there's a few older ladies who seem very put out at there being a competent cooking staff at the building. "All hands on deck, you know the drill, Serena." Punk adds another pancake to the stack you're both building, and Serena laughs.

"I'll set the table, I guess." She mutters, leaving the kitchen, heading to the dining room. You lean over the stack, and press a quick peck of a kiss to Punk's cheek.

"I'm happy you're home." You tell him softly, and he smiles at you. You don't think _happy_ quite covers it to be honest, but it's the best word you've got in that moment.

"I'm happy to be home." His smile gets a little bigger when he hears Tabby talking to Serena in the dining room.

"I don't see why I gotta help Daddy, I'm a horrible- Papa!" Punk stops cooking when he hears that, turns just in time to catch Tabby as she flings herself at him. "You're not supposed to be here, you're supposed to be in some airport! How?"

"Christmas miracle." He laughs, and she swats at his chest.

"Christmas miracle... Hmmph... _Whatever_. You knew didn't you, Daddy? This was some big prank, wasn't it? You two are mean." She pouts, and you shake your head. It's amusing that everyone assumes that you were in on this, until you'd woken up to find Punk in bed you'd not known he'd be home for Christmas.

"We're the worst." Punk agrees with her, and Tabby laughs at him, kissing his cheek, before giving you a hug and a quick kiss too. "You wanna grab the syrup, and the butter?" Punk asks Tabby, starting another pancake.

"Uh... Can I help?" The Ambrose kid sounds utterly miserable, and you wonder how long he's been standing there. You can't imagine seeing someone happy with their parents is what a kid like him needs, especially on Christmas.

"You can indeed, Dean-Dean." Tabby waves him over to her, and drafts him into carrying a couple of the many syrup bottles through to the dining room for her.

"That's the kid who arrived last night?" Punk asks you, and you nod. "Hmm... Well, I know that once school starts back, one of the older kids is heading home, so I guess he can stay in the dorm until that space is freed up." Punk sighs, his eyebrows knitting. "He's been no trouble."

"Not yet." You shrug, and Punk makes a soft agreeing noise.

"You think he might be?" Punk's finished with his bowl of batter, and you add your last pancake to the pile.

"Everyone can be, Punkers." You tell him solemnly, and Punk nods vaguely. "Tabby likes him."

"Likes him or _likes_ him?" Punk's eyes narrow, and you have to hold back a laugh, over-protective Punk is unreasonably adorable, and amusing.

"We done in here?" Luke pops his head around the kitchen door, and Punk waves to the mountain of pancakes. "Good work, gentlemen." Luke takes the plate, and you both follow along behind him.

Breakfast was a loud and chaotic affair, everyone fussing over Punk, marvelling over how he'd managed to make it home. You'd been practically glued to his side the whole meal. You really have missed him so much, and you've not had a chance to really _welcome_ him home yet. A few stolen kisses do not make up for a week without him in your life, and as soon as the breakfast dishes are washed, you plan to steal him away, but he corners you and drags you to the office before you can put your plan into action.

You know that you should be out there with everyone else, but he's been away from you for so long, and you've missed him so much. Between him getting back so late, and having to get up so early this morning, you've not had a chance to show how much you missed each other. It's not romantic in the least, there'll be time for that tonight, it's nothing but confirming he's home, a quick physical confirmation, a prelude to the slower celebration you intend to have later. You don't really expect to be disturbed; the office is something of a sanctuary for you both. The only person who ever really thinks to disturb you there is Tabby, and she's a smart girl. She knows better than to try and stop her Daddy from having some alone time with her Papa.

You're buried in Punk's body, moving inside of him with a firm, determined pace, when there's a knock on the door, and you ignore it in favour of nipping at Punk's throat some more. The knock gets louder, and Punk sighs, his hands moving from your head to shove half-heartedly at your shoulders, a briefly annoyed look on his face.

"Daddy? Papa? C'mon, you gotta show face again sometime today... Make out later." Tabby sounds amused more than anything, her voice pitched low and filled with laughter. Punk groans quietly, and you nip his throat once more, before trying to pull away from him, but his legs wrap around your waist tighter.

"_Keep going_." He whispers, and you shake your head. You pull back and look at him, this quick session should be called quits now that you've been rumbled, but he squeezes your waist again, pulling you deeper into him. "_C'mon, quick._"

"_We'll get caught._" You kiss the tip of his nose, and he pulls you closer still, moaning against your shoulder. "_Punkers..._" He's tight, his body is always so very tight, and your daughter is just on the other side of the door, you really should not be making hurried, but passionate love to him with her so close.

"I'm giving you ten minutes! You two... _Honestly_... The things I do for my parents." Tabby mutters, and Punk laughs breathily in your ear. You're kind of glad Tabby is so used to you and Punk, and your need to have some _alone_ time.

"_Ten minutes... That long enough?_" He whispers, and you lap your way up his throat to his lips, kissing him deeply.

"_It's gonna have to be_." You laugh in his ear, and he doesn't answer, just urges you to move faster with his actions, and panted gasps. You come as quietly as you can, and drop to your knees in front of him, swallowing his cock down, sucking him off quickly, him biting the inside of his wrist to stop any noise.

"Gonna have to open the window or something." He mumbles, when you stand, licking your lips. You suppose he's right, it'll be cold, but it's better than the office smelling of sex.

"Uh-huh..." You lean in and kiss him. "Gonna give you a proper Merry Christmas-ing later..." You promise him, and he shivers in your arms, grinning mischievously when you break the kiss. "But now, we return to the fray?"

"To battle, Colt... To battle." He hops off the desk with a laugh. There's a sudden knock on the door, and you look at him. He shrugs, and opens the window, quickly righting his clothes. "Probably Kit-Kat come to check on us." He says with a laugh.

"Hello?" Dean is standing on the other side of the door, his hands in his pockets, trying to nonchalant, but really just looking horribly nervous.

"Hi?" You hold the door open, and the kid shuffles in. Punk's sitting behind his desk, an easy smile on his face, and you gesture to one of the chairs against the wall. "So, Deano what can we do for you?" You stand behind Punk, your hand resting on his shoulder. The kid's staring at the walls, at the pictures on them, at the little collection of Tabby's test papers, and the random newspaper clippings here and there. You're not sure if he's impressed, or stalling, but judging by the look on his face, it's a bit of both.

"Uh... Tabby said I should come talk to you... About maybe being able to stay for a while." He fidgets, his hands twisting in the sleeves of his shirt. "My mom... She's in a real bad way, and I don't really have a place to stay, and... Look, I just need somewhere for a little while, and Tabitha said that this is basically what you guys do here. You take people in, and you let them get on their feet." Punk's hand flits up to squeeze yours before he goes over, and sits with Ambrose.

"Your mother... Is she an addict?" He asks softly, the kid looks up at your desperately, and you nod at him.

"You don't have to answer if you don't want to... If you need us to help you, we will. It's just easier for us _to_ help if we know what we're helping with. Talk to Punk, and I'll go grab some of those cookies Tabby was making, I saw you sniffing around the oven, and lemme tell you, they taste even better than they smell." You grin at the kid, and Punk smiles back at you. It's easier for him to get people to open up to him when he has them on their own. You've little doubt that when you come back, in ten minutes, Punk'll have secured the entire story of why Dean Ambrose was knocking on your door on Christmas Eve.

"Bring me hot chocolate too." Punk grins at you, and Dean glances over at him. "Colt makes the _best _hot chocolate. I mean, you can feel it giving you diabetes, but what's Christmas without chocolate?" Punk smiles at him, and you nod vaguely.

"Yes, dear, anything else? Marshmallows, smores, caviar?" You laugh, and Punk waves you out of the office, you hear Dean laugh as you close the door, and almost walk into a nervous looking Tabby.

"_Daddy_!" She laughs timidly, and you wrap an arm around her shoulders, guiding her to the kitchen, past a laughing group of patients playing charades with some of the members. "Is Papa talking to Dean? Do you think he'll be able to stay? I think he should stay. It's not right to let him go back out on the street, and there's room in the dorm, and Iain's going back home in January, his dad'll be out of the hospital then, so there'll be room next door for Dean, and I think he'd like it here." Tabby has somehow contracted Punk's habit of rambling when nervous, and you laugh at her, going to the pantry, gathering the necessary ingredients to make hot chocolate. You don't use the powder stuff, not for Punk; instead, you make it from scratch, with real chocolate and thick cream. It's heavy with calories, but back when he'd still been recovering, it'd been something you'd given him regularly to make sure he was getting enough energy. It's a rare treat now, but there's still a part of you that loves making it for him, that loves watching him sip it down, savouring every mouthful. "Hot chocolate? Ooo, can I get some?" Tabby's following you, clearly hoping you'll spill something about what's going on with Dean.

"Uh-huh, course. I need you to frost some of the cookies, Tabby-Cat." You tell her, stirring the chocolate carefully, keeping a close eye on it.

"For Papa and Dean? Are they talking?" She starts mixing up some frosting, and you nod at her. Serena bustles past you, the kitchen is a hive of activity, and you think that you're kind of in the way making this hot chocolate, but no one has the heart to say anything.

"They are. I think your Papa's already got some plan of attack for your little friend." You grin over Tabby and she blushes furiously.

"Well, I'd say _someone_ has a crush." Serena laughs, and Tabby scowls at her. "C'mon Baby Sis, he's cute." Tabby snorts, but doesn't answer, her blush deepening.

"Don't tease the girl, Serena, that's mean." One of the patients helping with the cooking laughs, and Tabby smiles at her. "But he is cute... If I were forty years younger, I'd have a crush." The woman laughs, and you shake your head. The kid looks like a Cabbage Patch doll to you, but you're not a woman, and in your opinion there's nothing and no one as beautiful as Punk, so what you think probably doesn't count for much of anything.

"Daddy, tell them to stop bullying me." Tabby turns to look at you, the same wide-eyed endearing look she's given you since she was tiny little stray in a trash heap, and you sigh.

"Ladies, my daughter and her possible crush are not something to mock, at least not without Punk, he'll be sad to have missed this opportunity." You tell the women, and Serena laughs as Tabby throws her hands up in frustration.

"Papa can never know of this... He'll have a field day." She mutters darkly, and you press a kiss to her hair.

"I won't tell him." You whisper in her ear, and she smiles at you. "Get me some mugs, Tabs, and I'll get out of the way." You pour the hot chocolate between four mugs, and enlist Tabby to carry a plate of her cookies, and her own mug, to the office. "Off you go, Tabby-Cat, serious work business." You tell her, and she balances the plate on your arm before opening the door for you. "Thanks." You tell her as she closes it behind you. Inside the office, Dean is dabbing at his eyes with his sleeve, they look slightly red, and Punk is giving him a loose one-armed hug.

"_Finally_, I thought you'd been eaten by monsters." Punk laughs, squeezing Dean's shoulders once, before taking the plate from you. "Cookie, Deano?" He smiles at Dean, and the kid picks one of them up. "Kit-Kat makes the best cookies." Punk takes one of the large snowman-shaped ones for himself, biting the hat off in one go.

"She's a good cook." Dean mutters quietly, taking his mug from you, and returning to nibbling at his cookie. He takes a sip of the chocolate, and stares at you, an odd look of awe on his face.

"It's good, right? I married the king of hot chocolate." Punk laughs, and sips from his own mug. The look of satisfaction that spreads over his face isn't one you generally see outside of the bedroom, and you roll your eyes at him.

"You guys have a chat?" You sit in the chair behind your desk, taking a little sip of your chocolate, and a nibble of the cookie in your hand.

"We did." Punk nods, and settles back in his chair. "I believe we have a plan for going forward."

"So I _can_ stay?" Dean asks quietly, and Punk nods. It looks like a weight's been lifted from the kid's shoulders, and you can't stop a slight twinge of fondness from building in you. He's a good kid at heart, at least you think so, time will tell, but he really does seem like a good kid.

"We'll contact the Authorities after the break, and see what your situation is, but for the meantime, this is your home." Punk smiles at him, and Dean looks down at his mug. You stand, coming over to pat his shoulder gently, and he looks up at you, something oddly grateful in his eyes.

"Welcome to the family, Mr Ambrose. Lunch'll be ready in a couple of hours." You tell him in a tone as friendly and welcoming as you can.

When lunch time comes, the kids from next door have been over for maybe an hour, the strictly monitored interaction with the patients in the main building had been fine, and the little ones had proven to be far better at party games than the rag-tag collection of recovering addicts, but that's always the case. Tabby had begged out of helping to cook to keep Dean company, and she'd apparently taken charge of introducing him to the people he'd be staying with next month. That is if the Authorities approve, but based on the story Punk gave you, you think there's no way that any reasonable, responsible person would let the kid go back to his mother.

The dining room is full, and you notice that at some stage someone, and your money is on Luke who would have been operating on the orders of Serena, has pinned some mistletoe to the top of the door. Every year the damn stuff gets stuck there, and every year you end up having to give kisses to many a random person. Of course, Punk always manages to get out of having to kiss anyone but you. You married a cunning man. Cunning that Tabby has picked up from her Papa, because she only ever has to give you a peck, but then again, you're also the only person they both will randomly curl up beside and sleep on, so it might be that you're just their favourite person.

Lunch is filled with laughter, far too much food, and everyone having a good time. There's Christmas music playing in the background, a subtle soundtrack to the festivities. The mistletoe is getting some good usage, every time someone has to go to the bathroom, or pop to the kitchen, they have to leave through the one door, and someone always is waiting for their kiss when the person returns. You've been caught at least three times, and you think that Punk is probably to blame for that. You almost wish he was more possessive over other people kissing you, but he really does seem to be terribly fond of sharing the right to peck you on the cheek. When the main meal is finished, Tabby volunteers to get the dessert, and Dean goes with her, carefully observing some kind of thirty-second delay to avoid kissing her under the mistletoe.

"Wait!" Punk calls out suddenly, and you glance over at him, at the little smirk on his face. Dean pauses in the doorway, looking confused, with a pie in his hand. Behind him comes Tabby with another of the dessert pies in her hands, and Punk's plan becomes obvious to you. Tabby stares at you for a few seconds, and then she looks up. Dean follows her gaze, and blushes bright red.

"I... Uh..." He stammers, and Tabby is fidgeting, looking at once happy and miserable. She leans over, and presses a soft kiss of Dean's cheek. They were blushing before, but now their blushes are so deep it looks painful. Punk smiles cheerfully at them, and you cuff the back of his head lightly, getting a grateful look from Tabby. There are times when Punk is an evil man, but you can't say you mind it. Both Dean and Tabby had been stealing shy glances at each other all day, and it's cute. Your over-protective father senses are tingling, but it's still cute.

"You're a terrible man, Punkers." You mutter in his ear, and he laughs.

"You love me all the same." He grins, and looks at Tabby, then at the pies, and finally at you. You sigh dramatically, getting the message quickly.

"You forgot a knife, Tabby-Cat." You get up, going to fetch a knife from the kitchen. You're somehow utterly unsurprised to find Punk leaning against the door jab when you come back. He's wearing a cute little grin, and you shake your head at him, but grin back. You were due your kiss underneath the mistletoe after all.

"Lookie here, we've got some mistletoe up there, and we're both stood under it, so-" Your hand wraps around the back of his neck, and the few people who are paying attention whoop in amusement as you kiss him thoroughly, leaving Punk happily grinning, and far quieter than he's been all lunch. Tabby's wearing a beaming smile, and you grin over at her. You've always expected her to be embarrassed by how touchy-feely you and Punk can be with each other, but love and romance had enthralled her as a little girl, and it still does today. Dean on the other hand looks a little embarrassed, and you think you like the kid a little more for that.

After lunch, the entire group decamps to the front room, the kids seem excited, and you think it's because the staff from the foster home have told them that Santa's coming, which he is. Granted Santa is just Mr Foley from the across street, who loves being Santa to the point of even bleaching his beard for the role, but it's still special, and when he's in character you could almost believe that he really was old Saint Nicholas. Every year, he brings some of his kids, dressed as elves, with him and they turn the spot in the corner with the tree into a little Santa's Grotto whilst everyone eats lunch. Every year you think until you see that little slice of the magic of Christmas, that you won't get impressed by it, but when you see the sparkles, the fake snow, the throne, and Mr Foley and his kids all dressed up, you can't help but feel six years old and full of wonder.

"_He really out did himself this year_." Punk whispers in your ear, as he leans against you, watching Santa laugh and talk cheerfully to the middle-aged lady sitting on his knee.

"_He out does himself every year._" You whisper back to Punk, pressing a kiss to his temple, and Punk makes an agreeing noise as he nuzzles against you some more.

"Next name on my list is a Mr Dean Ambrose?" Dean glances back at you and Punk, and you smile at him. You're not sure how Punk was able to give Mr Foley Dean's name but you're glad he managed it. Dean looks bewildered but happy, and whatever trouble Punk went to is more than worth it for that look alone.

"I just got here..." He mutters, and Punk shrugs.

"Your name's on the list, Deano. Go see what Santa has to say." He says with a laugh, and Dean stands nervously. The eldest of Santa's elves ushers Dean up to her father, and he perches on Santa's knee, looking curiously cute. You think he really will fit in quite nicely with the Society.

"You've had a rough year, young man." Santa says, and Dean pulls an odd face. "Don't worry, next year will be better. You've a home here." He assures Dean happily, and Dean looks over at you and Punk, then to Tabby. You think that there's a blush on his cheeks, and you hold back a sigh, watching your daughter blush in return. It seems that this _crush_ is working both ways, and there's a part of you that wishes Tabby was still a little kid instead of a hormonal teenager. "Merry Christmas, Dean." Santa hands Dean his present, and calls the next name out once he's accepted his candy cane to go with it from one of the elves. Dean wanders over to you and Punk, a nervous little look on his face.

"I can't take this... You're already giving me a bed, feeding me... I don't need presents too." He mutters, and you shake your head.

"Hey, it's from Father Christmas, nothing to do with us. Our presents are under the tree upstairs." Which is true enough, there's a little collection of presents under the tiny plastic tree in Punk and yours bedroom. The presents Santa provides are all bought from his own money. You've no idea how this nice old guy manages it, but no matter how many people are in the building at Christmas he always has an age and gender appropriate gift for them. Dean glances down at the present, and then back at Santa. An odd look crosses his face, and he stares up at you both.

"I only got here last night." He says slowly, something calculating in his gaze. "I've been around you both pretty much all day... How did you give him my name?" Dean frowns, and you glance at Punk who shrugs vaguely.

"I didn't give it to him." He says plainly, and you know that tone. It's one he uses when he's telling nothing but the truth, if he _had _given Mr Foley Dean's name, you'd be able to tell from his tone, but by the sound of things, he really didn't. Dean smiles slightly, seemingly giving up on his investigation, and goes over to Tabby, talking to her quietly, laughing at something she says.

"If you didn't tell him, and _I_ didn't tell him, how did he know?" You ask Punk, and he shrugs again, snuggling into your side, pulling your arm around him tighter.

"Same way I got home." He says smugly. "Christmas miracle."

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><p><em>Thank you to my dear <strong>littleone1389, alizabethianrose, and Rebllecherry<strong> for the reviews. :3_

_Second up we have **Little Drummer Boy**. I'm a sucker for that song. :3_

_Not much is set in stone for these fics - so if you'd like to fire me a song and pairing combo in a PM, I'll have a listen and see what I can come up with._

**_You can't give me an apple _****_for Christmas _****_like my students are already doing , but you can give me a review! ;)_**


	3. It's Beginning to Look A Lot Like Xmas

Warnings:_7 Sins Continuity_ 3rd person PoV, Het (Punk/AJ Lee), Smut, Inappropriate use of candy canes.

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><p>"You got it?" April doesn't even bother saying hello to her husband. Greetings are a formality she doesn't have time for.<p>

"Hello sweetie, I'm fine thanks for asking. Why, yes! Of course I missed you, it was a true hardship enduring my loneliness without you, but you're home now, and I'm _so_ happy you're back." Punk laughs at her, and catches her waist, pulling her close for a kiss that she squirms out of quickly.

"Did you get my tree?" She says slowly, handing him her bag, and he sighs, shaking his head.

"Your tree is in the living room, all bucketed up, and waiting for your artistic endeavours." He takes the bag, and leaves. "The decorations you wanted are in the box on the couch." He calls from the laundry room, and April practically skips to the living room.

"Good man, Punker. You chose well." She grins at the tree, slightly taller than her husband, much greener, but possibly as prickly.

"Fuck all to do with me, I didn't choose the fucker." Punk flops on the couch, and stares at the tree balefully.

"Ah... Good old Mikey... For a Jew he has a good eye for a Christmas tree." April laughs, and starts rooting through the large box of decorations. "Philip, _where_ are my candy canes?" April glares up at him, and Punk shrugs, looking utterly unimpressed.

"You said nothing about candy canes, Ape. I'm no mind reader. I didn't know you wanted them, so there aren't any." April looks at him, and he stands, looking contrite. "But there will be! Very shortly there will be a veritable mountain of them." He leaves the living room, and shortly after, she hears the front door closing behind him. April chuckles to herself, she has her man well trained really.

"Punkers!" There a call from the basement, and shortly after Cabana appears with a plastic bag in one hand. "You miss your wife so much you're cosplaying?" He laughs, and April snorts at him. "You're back early O'Neil." He gives April a light hug, and she nods.

"Kinda, got an early flight, wanted to get this finished as soon as I could." She gestures to the tree, and Cabana nods, wandering over to the box, fishing out the lights, and starts unravelling them. "So you're looking for Punk?"

"I am, I _was_ at least... I came bearing gifts." He waves a hand at the bag sitting on the couch, holding the unwound strand of lights out to April, who starts winding them around the tree. "Stupid bastard forgot the candy canes... Christmas ain't even my people's holiday, and I know you gotta have candy canes." He laughs, and April grins at him.

"Pff, _your_ people, you're the worst Jew I've ever met." She mutters, and steps back from the tree, before tweaking a section of the lights.

"I'm an amazing Jew." Cabana mutters, sorting through the rest of the decorations. "These ones, or these ones next?" He holds up two different kinds of baubles, and April takes one set from him.

"You do those ones, I'll do these." She starts hanging her ornaments on the tree, and Cabana works around her, stepping back often, a critical look in his eye.

"So... How pissed were they about the podcast?" He asks after a bit, and April laughs. The Office had been _quiet_ about the first of the two podcasts Punk and Colt are doing together. The Steve Austin one had been something of a rebuttal, and she thinks that storylines will all try to paint the medical staff in a better light for a while, but no one _said_ anything to her about it. She knows it's a foolish hope to have but she'd like for the reason behind the silence to be that they realise she is not her husband. He's very much his own man, and whilst she supports him, she is not him. There's nothing they can do to her to make him change his mind or recant anything, and she's not said anything publicly on the matter, doesn't intend to for a long time, if at all. She'd been there when they were recording, and more than once, she'd wanted to interject, wanted to bitch people out for how he was treated, but she'd busied herself with menial household tasks, listening to Colt's seethingly protective rage, and Punk's story.

"Well... Let's just say there's no chance you're ever going to Stanford." She laughs, and Colt snorts, taking the next box of ornaments from her.

"Good." He snarls, his eyes narrowed. "The server's _still_ fucked..." He sighs, and April laughs. The two idiots really managed to break the Internet for wrestling fans, and she's strangely proud of that. She'd known they were going to, there'd been no doubt in her mind that it'd cause a fuss, but the idiots had sweetly, _naively_ believed that whilst maybe it'd get more downloads than usual, it'd not be _this_, maybe five days of _chaos_. Really, they're naive souls, and it amuses April far too much.

"Still? Man, you gonna be able to get it fixed for Thursday?" April asks, taking a strand of tinsel, and draping it over the branches.

"Fuck me... I _hope_ so... Got some guy working on it, moving over to a new server, so that should stop it from breaking... Of course, that might not help. We broke the email too, and there were so many fucking _stupid_ questions." Colt sighs, and April laughs at him. It's pretty clear he's been spending far too much time with Punk if the stupidity of people is surprising and frustrating to him.

"Lemme guess, number one question, why are all the guys wet when they come to the ring?" She laughs, and Colt glances at her out of the corner of his eyes, a grin on his face.

"_Exactly_! We give them the opportunity to ask _anything_ and alls people wanna know is where your first date was, and why were the Shield so fucking wet... _Anything_ about Punkers' story and that is the most important two questions. Fuck me... I despair of humanity." He sighs dramatically and steps back from the tree again. April stands beside him, staring at the tree critically. "I think..."

"There." She moves one piece of tinsel, and Colt nods. "That is a fucking beautiful tree." She crows, and Cabana hands her a handful of candy canes. "Thank you kind sir." She unwraps one, and pops it in her mouth, before placing some on the tree.

"You know, this is just giving Punkers, and me, a ready source of candy and food colouring. When you get back next, he's gonna be bouncing off the walls." Colt pulls an odd face, and laughs. "Actually, you'd probably enjoy that." He laughs again, and April throws a cane at him.

"Perv... But whatever, I'm not gonna object to there being a spring in the husband's step." She winks at Colt, and he shakes his head, taking the plug to the socket and plugging it in.

"Once the rumours are true, I think we could go into the Christmas tree decorating business, O'Neil." He grins over at April, and she nods vaguely. They did a good job, even if the star isn't on the top yet, but she's leaving that for Punk to do, he needs to be involved somehow in the grand tree decorating.

"So... You were just here to deliver candy canes?" She asks, and Colt nods, swiping one of the spare candies from the bag.

"Yup, figured I should help him get in the little lady's good books, but I'm guessing you've sent him off on a quest to Walgreen's?" Colt starts crunching the candy cane down, and April laughs.

"I've got him trained." She smirks, and Colt laughs at her.

"That you do, O'Neil, that you do. Well, I'll get going. Tell him I'll come over, uh... Tomorrow to do part two. Jesus... I can only hope this fucker doesn't break everything..." He leaves the living room, heading for the back door, and April follows along behind him.

"You really didn't think it'd cause this much fuss? _C'mon_, you had to have some idea." She flicks the kettle on, intending to make something warm to drink for when Punk returns, and Colt leans against the doorframe, a thoughtful expression on his face.

"Ten thousand emails in like an hour... The fucker broke the Internet." He laughs, and April shakes her head.

"You _both_ broke it. You should be banned." She laughs, and Colt snorts in amusement.

"Whelp, maybe, but come the next one after Punkers things'll be back to normal." A wry look flits over his face, and April smiles at him. "At least people'll stop asking me why he _quit_." Colt sneers the word, and April nods. She can imagine how frustrating it must have been for Colt, how many people just wanted to pump him for information on Punk during his media silence.

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, they will still probably ask why the Shield were so wet when they came to the ring." She laughs, and Colt chuckles.

"Wet t-shirt contest, that's what I tells them." He smirks, and April laughs, fanning herself.

"I wish... It'd make backstage _much_ more interesting." She winks, and Colt leaves with a wave over his shoulder. Maybe five minutes later, she hears Punk clumping up the stairs, cursing the cold.

"Motherfucker..." He mutters, and she laughs at him from the kitchen. "How the fuck did you get these bastards so quick?" He wanders into the kitchen and dumps a bag of candy canes on a counter.

"Mikey. He knew you'd forgotten them, and like a good first wife delivered." She laughs at the strange mix of a scowl and a fond smile that flits over Punk's face. "I made coffee. See, good second wife." She pours him a cup, and carries it to the living room.

"There's no star, you forget it or you just can't reach?" He laughs, and April snorts, tossing him the star for the top of the tree.

"I'd like to think of it as subversively forcing you into the spirit of the season." She chuckles when he's finished putting the star on top of the tree, a happy little smile on his face. He might deny it, and he might pretend he doesn't like it, but really, _everyone_ loves Christmas, even if it's just a little bit.

"I'm not getting into _any_ spirits." He snorts, and April smirks at him, pulling him down for a kiss. "Unless you're planning on changing your name... You could pull off being called Spirit." He mutters, and starts kissing her neck.

"Eww... _Gross_, no way." She moans as he laps behind her ear. "Spirit is the name of some crusty punk who smokes weed, and wears hemp panties. I am _not_ wearing hemp panties."

"I wouldn't object to not wearing panties period, Spirit." He laughs, and April pulls away from him, a scowl on her lips.

"Seriously, no." She folds her arms, and he looks at her in confusion.

"No no panties, or no to Spirit?" He smirks, waggling his eyebrows, and April sighs. Sometimes her husband is incorrigible.

"No to Spirit... Sometimes panties are over-rated." She laughs, and he grins, scooping her up and depositing her on the couch.

"Like now?" He smirks, and she nods, right now panties, pants and any other offending articles of clothing seem incredibly over-rated. Stripping is quick, and mostly distracted by trying to kiss, or stroke each other's bodies. His hands skim over her breasts, toying with her nipples, lapping at one then the other. Her hands tangle in his hair as he laps over her breasts, before he moves lower. His tongue glides down her slit, teasing her hole with quick little licks, and she moans softly, as he flicks his tongue over her clit once. His hands are busy with something out of her sight, but most things are right then. Her eyes are closed, her breathing speeding up as he laps at her pussy. Then something thin and _tingling_ penetrates her.

"What the fuck?" She pants, and glances down her body. The candy cane is barely inside her, but the peppermint in the sugar is making her pussy feel warm. He grins up at her, and moves the candy into her a little deeper. "Oh fuck... I am so kicking your ass for this." She moans as he latches onto her clit, sucking and flicking it rapidly. The slim candy moves quicker inside of her, and the wetter she gets, the more the peppermint tingles. His tongue moves down, lapping at the candy cane, lapping up the mixture of her juices and the sugar.

"Mmm... _Tasty_." He chuckles, and she glares at him. "What? Oh c'mon... It feels nice, right?" He smiles, and she wants to smack him, but he has a point, it does feel _nice_. The warming sensation inside her is strange, but it does feel good. "Bet it feels good here too." He pulls the cane from her, and rubs it over her clit rapidly, making her almost whine. The peppermint makes the sensitive little nub feel like it's on fire and being frozen all at once.

"Fuckfuckfuckfuck..." She pants, and he blows very gently on her clit, making her legs tremble. Then he starts licking at her again, his finger sliding inside her body. "Oh god..." She moans, the combination of him fingering her, the peppermint, and his tongue is already making her feel far closer to the edge than she was expecting. "You're a kinky bastard." She pants, and it sounds like he laughs, but the noise is muffled, his mouth busy with her pussy.

"You love it." He murmurs, leaning back, licking his lips, and popping the candy cane into his mouth. She snorts at him, and moans as his fingers slide inside of her, moving them slowly in and out.

"Urgh... You're lucky that's true... _So _lucky." She moans again, as the candy pops out of his mouth, and is rubbed against her clit once more. The tingling sensation builds, and she whines softly.

"Luck is for losers, my dear." He laughs, and starts sucking on her clit once more, two of his fingers wriggling inside of her, teasing and stretching her body. "I ain't got any condoms with me... You have one?" He asks sitting up, and nodding down to his cock.

"Yeah... No. I got nothing." She laughs, and moves to settle between his thighs on the floor, taking his cock into her mouth, suckling on the head, swirling her tongue around it, lapping at the length like it as a candy cane.

"Aww, _fuck_." He pants, his hips bucking up, forcing his cock further into her throat, and making her cough slightly. "Sorry..." He mutters, and April sits back with a smile on her face.

"No self control, Punk." She smirks, and he looks mildly contrite, his lips pursed around the candy cane once more. "Hmm..." She sits back up on the couch, and shoves at his shoulders, forcing him to lie down, then braces herself over him, her pussy over his face. "Hop to it." She laughs, and he takes a hold of her hips, busying himself with lapping at her folds. She moans as he starts flicking her clit, drawing her orgasm closer. She gives a shivery laugh when he wriggles his hips, making his hard cock bob in front of her. She starts sucking him in earnest, aiming to get him off quickly, but he's too good at making her come. Her orgasm washes over her, leaving her panting and trembling on top of him. Lethargy over comes her, and beneath her he moans, bucking his hips, clearly wanting her to finish what she started.

"C'mon... Wifely duties are being left undone here." He whines, and April sighs dramatically, slithering off of him, and resting on her knees beside the couch. He repositions himself, and looks down at her. "You sure?" She's kneeling with her mouth open, her hands in her lap, waiting for him to get on with fucking her mouth.

"C'mon, hurry up before I change my mind, and have a shower instead." She mutters, there's still a warming in her pussy that's keeping her clit tingling, and she wants to come again, but this time she wants it to be whilst she's swallowing his cum. His hands rest on her head, and he gently guides his cock into her mouth, thrusting shallowly, slowly gaining speed. Her finger starts teasing her clit, and he groans, staring down at her. "Fuck... I am the _biggest_ loser in the World." He groans, and his cum fills her mouth, her own orgasm washing over her. Once they've both gotten their breath back, he grins down at her. "So... Shower?" He winks, and April snorts, snagging his shirt from the floor and pulling it over her head, then she stands on shaky legs.

"For me, you have boxes to clear up, and those candy canes need to go in the big red bowl in the kitchen." She wanders up the first few stairs.

"_Ape_..." He whines, looking ready to ignore her orders, and follow her upstairs.

"Oh no! I need to make sure I get all this sugar outta me. Last thing either of us need is me getting a yeast infection." She snorts, and Punk glances away, an odd look on his face.

"Eww... I do not need to know that." He pulls his pants on, and April laughs.

"We're married, gorgeous. You get to know all the delightful girl problems... Just think how fun it'll be when we have kids." She laughs, and he looks up at her with an oddly dreamy smile. "If we have a daughter, I'm making sure you get to tell her _all_ about the menstrual cycle."

"Oh god no, _that_ is definitely a woman's job..." Punk mutters, throwing her shirt at her, but missing wildly.

"And here I thought I married a feminist." She laughs, and Punk snorts, stuffing the empty bauble boxes into the larger one.

"Hey, did Cabana say anything when he came over?" He calls when she's at the top of the stairs. She knows full well he's asking about the second podcast. He'd been an antsy pain in the ass about wanting to get the first one done, and now she thinks he's trying to reign in his desire to close the wrestling chapter of his life. He's looking forward to the next one, has already started planning out the plot twists, and she thinks it looks exciting, but wrestling needs an epilogue, and this second AOW podcast is just that.

"He's coming over tomorrow to record." She calls down to him, and Punk appears at the foot of the stairs, a smile on his face.

"Cool... We need to get him his Christmas present soon. Any ideas?" His smile melts into a grin, and April can tell there's some idea floating around in her devious little husband's head.

"I was thinking maybe a profile on some dating site..." April laughs, and Punk smirks.

"Hmm... We can get it printed on his socks. You're an evil genius! I _knew_ that there was a reason I married you." He laughs, and wanders away. April shakes her head, and heads to the shower, laughing as the strains of him singing Christmas carols drift up to her. It doesn't matter how much you try and fight it, _everyone_ loves Christmas, even her atheist jerk husband.

* * *

><p><em>Thank you to my dear <strong>guest (please continue), Brokenspell77, and littleone1389<strong> for the reviews. :3_

_Thirdly we have **It's Beginning to Look A Lot Like Christmas**. I like the old Rat Pack Christmas songs so much. (Why yes, Dean Martin's is my favourite version of this song!)_

_Not much is set in stone for these fics - so if you'd like to fire me a song and pairing combo in a PM, I'll have a listen and see what I can come up with._

**_You can't give me an apple _****_for Christmas _****_like my students are already doing , but you can give me a review! ;)_**


	4. I'll Be Home For Christmas

_Warnings: Slash __(Ambrose/Punk),__ Mild Profanity, Set in the **Visiting Grave continuity** (well after the current story - this is well in the future - so no spoilers for **First Dance**)  
><em>

* * *

><p>"Punkin?" Jon calls upstairs. There's unfamiliarly festive music coming from the stereo, and Jon's almost of the opinion that Punk must have hired a cleaner or something, there's no way the Sphinx bastard would be willingly listening to the Christmas classics. Yet, that seems to be exactly what he's doing, crooning along to Bing Crosby, and decorating a large Christmas tree. "Who are you, and what have you done with my Punkin Pie?" Jon asks as he flops onto the couch. Punk laughs, but doesn't say anything, still fixated on tweaking his tree, making it perfect.<p>

"Plug this in." He waves at the power cord for the lights on his tree, and Jon stands, shaking his head. "There... Pretty isn't it?" Punk sits on the couch, and Jon almost collapses beside him, his head falling to Punk's shoulder.

"It's lovely... Why is there a tree?" Punk's arm wraps around Jon's shoulders, and laughs softly, his hand carding through Jon's hair.

"There's been a tree the last few years... I'm home to enjoy it, so I might as well have one, you _know_ that. You've asked this question for how many years now?" Punk kisses Jon's head, his fingers still slowly moving through Jon's hair. The gentles touches, and soft music lulling Jon into a comfortable sleepy state, that lasts until he coughs, a loud hacking sound ripping through the tranquillity. "You sick, Cabbage Patch?" Punk pulls away, and Jon mourns the warmth he was snuggled up against.

"Cold... I'm fine. C'mere." Jon makes grabby hands at Punk, but he's up and off the couch, heading for the kitchen.

"Stay there, wrap up in the blanket." Punk calls, and Jon sighs, grabbing the blanket from the back of the couch. If he's not wound it around himself by the time Punk comes back he'll be pissed, the Sphinx bastard is pushy and protective over Jon more often than not. When he returns, it's with a mug of something steaming in his hands, and a concerned look creasing his eyebrows. "Here, drink this." He mutters, brushing his hand over Jon's forehead. "You're hot."

"Not as hot as you." Jon takes a hold of Punk's wrist, and presses a quick kiss to the inside of it. There've been some ups and downs in their relationship, but the one thing that hasn't changed is how much Jon loves the feeling of Punk's skin against his lips. There is nothing in the World that looks or tastes as good as Jon's Punkin Pie.

"C'mon, you're sick... No tempting me." Punk laughs, and Jon sighs dramatically, sitting up, and cupping Punk's cheek.

"No tempting, no touching, no kissing?" Jon asks, leaning closer, his lips almost touching Punk's before a cough sneaks up on him, and he pulls back rapidly, hacking into his hands.

"_Nothing_." Punk snaps, as he stands and walks to the kitchen. "I'm making you some soup. Pick something to watch." Jon takes the remote up, and ends up picking some old Christmas movie, if Punk's going to be in the Holiday spirit, he supposes there's no harm in indulging him.

They end up watching movies for hours, Punk looking like he wants to curl up with Jon, but not because every so often Jon's taken by another coughing fit, or pitifully blowing his nose with the Kleenex Punk set on the table. Jon hates being sick, he's _always_ hated being sick, but with Punk not wanting to be sick too, it's the worst. He's sore and tired, and all he wants is Punk in his arms like a living hot water bottle, but instead the Sphinx bastard is curled around a cushion, sipping orange juice to try to ward off Jon's germs. Eventually, they decide to head to bed. Jon knows it's far too early for Punk's usual bedtime, but Jon's exhausted, and Punk actually looks pretty tired himself.

"You gonna sleep with me?" Jon asks hopefully, and Punk pulls an odd face, like he's genuinely considering sleeping elsewhere. "C'mon, I promise, my fleas are well trained; they won't bite you and get you sick in the night. I've missed you... Wanna hold you." Jon steps closer, wrapping his arms around Punk's waist, and Punk snuggles back against him.

"I'm gonna get sick... I can feel it." He sighs, and Jon smiles against his neck, pressing a soft kiss to the back of Punk's head.

"I apologise in advance... The fleas might be trained, but they love the way you taste as much as I do." Jon murmurs as he mouths the back of Punk's neck, making him shiver in his arms.

"You and your fucking fleas... Every year you get me sick, every year I spend coughing and sputtering, with the sisters and Cabana laughing at me... One year I'm gonna avoid the Jon Good cold of doom." Punk sighs, and pulls his shirt over his head, turning in Jon's arms and kissing him deeply. "Not this year."

"Obviously." Jon laughs, framing Punk's face with his hands. It kind of astounds him how Punk remains the most beautiful thing in the World to him. Time has passed, they've been together for years now, but even when they were fighting, and dancing around each other, there was one undeniable fact: Jon loves Punk. Their love for each other is possibly the only healthy thing about them, the only _whole_ thing about them both as people. Their love is strong, tempered, unshakeable, unbreakable, no matter what they throw at each other it's never flipped and morphed into hate. Jon's seen the line between love and hate, has seen relationships that tiptoe along it, but he and Punk have _always_ remained in love, firmly in love.

"C'mon... Bed." Punk tugs at Jon's shirt, and getting some help in removing it quickly. "You wanna?" Punk trails off, and Jon is sorely tempted, it's been far too long since he's been with Punk, but this cold more than likely won't let him. Stopping to cough every five minutes is not sexy, as they've learnt in the past. The one and only time they'd tried to have sex whilst one of them was sick had resulted in Punk getting annoyed halfway through and making Jon a bowl of chicken soup. Colds just aren't sexy, no matter how you look at them. So even if Punk is undeniably tempting, half-naked and rumpled as he is, there's no way Jon can give in to that temptation.

"Not tonight, honey..." Jon laughs, then starts coughing. Punk's hand moves soothingly over his bare back, and then pushes against him lightly.

"In bed, I'll go get you some water." Punk leaves the bedroom, and Jon finishes getting changed into sleep clothes, and clambers into bed, wrapping as much of the blankets around him as he dares. Punk likes to be warm at night, and woe betide Jon should he attempt to take too many of Punk's blankets. Punk sets a glass down on Jon's side of the bed, then places a soft kiss on his brow.

"Hurry up, I'm cold." Jon mutters, and Punk laughs as he slips under the covers, snuggling up to Jon. "I'm sorry I'm gonna get you sick, Punkin."

"Hmm... Make it up to me on Christmas. I've got a list of shit I want." Punk laughs, his arms and legs wrapping around Jon. "Plenty of different options... Though ignore anything in blue... That was Cabana." Jon laughs, and wonders what exactly this Christmas list entails. It'd been something they'd started a couple of years ago, a way to make sure that they get something they want or need for Christmas, a kind of naughty/nice list for presents. The nice side of the list useful or sentimental things that they want, the naughty side a list of things of a more adult nature. The naughty side of Punk's list is often something Jon uses for when he's on the road for too long, and Punk's too busy or in a too different time zone to give him a private show.

"I'll bear that in mind." Jon kisses Punk's hair, he feels so much better for having Punk in his arms. Even the cold is no match for having Punk exactly where he should be, wrapped up in Jon's embrace.

"You back out tomorrow or the next day?" Punk asks quietly, and Jon squeezes him tightly.

"I'm home all day tomorrow." Jon doesn't confirm that the day after he'll be gone, the unspoken words are a given, and Punk nods against his chest, falling asleep quickly.

Jon blinks awake, his head is aching, his entire left side is warm, but the right is cold, the blankets and Punk on the left, there's nothing on the right.

"Punkin." Jon tugs at the blankets wrapped around Punk, trying to draw some over to himself, but all Punk does is groan, and burrow closer to Jon, pulling the blankets around himself more. "Punk..." Jon strokes a finger over Punk's brow, and frowns. He feels hot, his skin clammy. He'd managed to get Punk sick, even after all of Punk's efforts to keep himself from catching this hellish cold, all the orange juice he drank, he's still sick. "Punk... Wake up." Jon shakes his shoulder gently, and Punk groans once more.

"Go way." He mutters, pulling the blankets up, his voice is a stifled little whisper, and Jon smiles, there's a tinge of guilt in it, but he can't help but smile at Punk when he's in a mood like this. Middle-aged men should not be cute, but Punk is, he's unreasonably adorable when he's tired and cranky.

"Share the blankets." Jon says softly, he feels a shade better than he did yesterday, but he's still not feeling too great, and he's _cold_.

"Here." Punk moves over Jon, dragging his blankets with him to rest on Jon's chest, his head under Jon's chin. His skin all over feels clammy and hot, it seems Punk's caught this illness far worse than Jon ever had.

"Punkin... You sick?" Jon thinks it's a stupid question, and the way Punk huffs, confirms it, his breath heavy and warm on Jon's skin. "I'm sorry." He strokes Punk's clammy skin gently, trying to soothe him enough so that he can sleep again. It seems like it works, and Jon lies contently still beneath his Sphinx bastard, carefully thinking of nothing but how warm, and comfortable he feels.

"Urgh... You asshole." Punk's groaning wakes Jon up, and he sits up once he realises that Punk's not curled up in his arms anymore. Instead, he's standing drying his hair, clearly not long showered, and dressed in thick flannel pyjamas. "You're fucking asshole, you gave me the plague!" Punk snarls, and Jon smiles slightly, holding his hand out to Punk.

"C'mere Punkin... Lemme keep you warm." Punk blows his nose in a tissue, and shakes his head. "Punkin..." Jon tries wheedling, but it seems like Punk is set in his decision to not snuggle up with Jon. He grabs the thick comforter from the bed, and leaves the room, dragging it with him. "Where are you going?" Jon calls after him, wrapping the remaining blankets around himself, and trailing behind Punk.

"Couch... Gonna watch TV." Punk's voice is thick with mucus, and Jon feels briefly sorry about that. If he'd not come home sick in the first place, Punk wouldn't have caught this cold.

"I'll come with you." Jon snags his cell, texting his way to the living room, curling up on the couch at Punk's side to finish the conversation.

_Colt... I have a favour. - sent_

_What? - Punkin 3.14's Mom_

_I'm sick... Punk's sick... Look after us like a good mother hen. -sent_

_You're both sick? Fine... I'll bring you food and play nurse for a little bit, but I'm not staying, I can't get sick too. - Punkin 3.14's Mom_

_Thankssssss - sent_

It takes Colt maybe a half hour to show up, some takeaway soup, and sandwiches with him.

"Wow... You both look like shit." He laughs, and Jon stares at him. He's wearing one of those Asian facemask things, and Punk is choking on laughter at him. "What? I can't get sick, I have to work! Asshole. Here I am looking after you, like a good best-"

"Thank you, Bana." Punk interrupts him, and Colt seems placated. The Saints have an innate ability to rile each other's tempers up, and soothe them back down with just a word. It's something Jon wishes he could learn, the art of smoothing over an argument without having to get the Chicago bred bastard cupid to intervene, but Colt's intervention has stopped a lot of stupidity on both Jon's and Punk's parts. Cabana hands Punk his food first, hovering nervously for a few seconds before passing Jon his.

"How'd you get sick?" The question is clearly directed at Punk, and Jon busies himself with eating, half-watching the TV, half-listening as Punk explains that yesterday Jon had come home ill, and Punk had caught this cold from him.

"If it makes you feel any better, Cabana, I've gotta wrestle tomorrow." Jon smiles miserably, and Colt frowns.

"You're gonna be alright by then? You look terrible, Gerbil Cheeks... You should stay home." Cabana takes the trash from both Punk and Jon, a worried little frown on his face.

"I gotta pay the bills." Jon laughs, and Punk tries, but ends up coughing, getting handed a cup of tea for his throat.

"There." Cabana sets a teapot down on the table, and a cup for Jon. "You top that up with hot water when it's empty, should be good for three pots." He looks proud of himself, and Jon isn't going to ask what's in this tea. It seems strangely medicinal, and he's learned not to question the weird shit the Saints find when they're left to their own devices. "There's some more soup in the fridge, and I got you a loaf of that bread you like." Cabana's hand is resting on Punk's forehead as he talks, his voice muffled by the facemask. He turns to Jon with a stern look in his eye. "_You_ take care of him... I've only got one Punkers." Cabana ruffles Jon's hair, getting a glare from Jon, and a grin from Punk.

"You come over and nurse me when Cabbage Patch is gone?" Punk calls to the retreating Cabana, and there's a laugh from the Chicago bred bastard best friend.

"I'm bringing you movies you've never seen and will complain about... And something with garlic and chilli in it... I heard it was good for colds." Cabana shouts back, and Jon shakes his head. They really could have these strange shouted conversations before Colt's trying to leave, but it never seems to occur to them.

"I want popcorn!" Punk grins, and Jon gives up, taking the remote up, flicking through the channels.

"Yeah, yeah... And don't worry Gerbil Cheeks. I'll get him fixed up for when you're home next. Later!" There's the sound of the door closing, and then nothing but the sounds of the TV in the quiet of the house.

"Will you be home for Christmas?" Punk asks softly, his voice quiet and gentle. Jon turns to look at him, there's an oddly hopeful look on Punk's face, but Jon has no idea if he'll be able to make it home for Christmas this year. He wants to, but as ever his life tries to get between them. Life is always trying to get between them, and has succeeded on more than one occasion. "It's fine if you can't." Punk mutters, settling down against the arm on his side of the couch. He looks so small, and faraway, and Jon's sick of being so denied his Punkin Pie. He sits up with a sigh, and shakes his head, pulling Punk over to rest against him.

"This year, I'll be home, I promise." Jon sounds firm, and he means it, he's sick of being so far from Punk so often. Life has taken them down such separate professional paths over the years they've been together, and this year Jon is determined that he'll watch Punk unwrap his Christmas present in person instead of over the Internet. He finally has enough stroke to get some time to spend with him Punkin over the Holiday. This year he'll have Christmas at home in person, and not only online, and in his dreams.

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><p><em>Thank you to my<strong> Rebllecherry, guest and littleone1389<strong> for the reviews. :3_

_Fourth we have **I'll Be Home For Christmas**. This was requested by my dear **littleone1389**. I can only hope it fit your thoughts! (I had to throw the fleas in for you!) _

_Not much is set in stone for these fics - so if you'd like to fire me a song and pairing combo in a PM, I'll have a listen and see what I can come up with._

**_You can't give me an apple _****_for Christmas _****_like my students are already doing , but you can give me a review! ;)_**


	5. Baby It's Cold Outside

_Warnings: Slash __(Orton/Punk),__ Profanity, Smut._

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><p>Randy stares at the scene in front of him, if he didn't know better he'd say Punk was drunk, but Randy knows better, far better than to believe that's the case. Yet, it would neatly explain why Punk is dancing with some gargantuan man, his hips moving in time with a song that's playing only in Punk's head. The mammoth of a man is pawing at the scruffy bastard, his huge hand moving almost <em>possessively<em> over Punk's back, down to his ass, and Punk laughs, before stumbling away, the huge man following.

"_Randal_!" Punk almost sings Randy's name, and he frowns, catching the wobbling Punk.

"Punk... You okay?" Randy asks softly, eying the gorilla of a man standing nearby. Punk stands on his tiptoes, his lips by Randy's ear, and laughs softly.

"Nope... Not okay in the least. This fucker drugged me... I need out of here." Randy grabs Punk's shoulders, and holds him out at arms' length. His head almost lolls on his shoulders, his eyes murky, and a stupid smile on his lips. He's _clearly_ drugged, and really the contrary bastard should be an incoherent and giggling mess, not knowing he's drugged and fighting it.

"How that fuck are you this lucid?" Randy mutters, pulling Punk closer. "My friend here doesn't seem too well, I'm taking him home." Punk slumps forward, a dead weight against Randy's chest, and the man mountain steps forward. "I got him, don't worry." Randy assures the man, not really sure if Punk's words can be entirely trusted. It's not like too many people trust Punk, and it's not like Punk trusts too many people in return. It's all a circle of mistrust, distrust, and snide comments, but judging by the way he'd looked, Punk really has been drugged, and judging by the way the living mountain is acting, he was the one who drugged him.

"You're my knight in shining Affliction shirts, Randal!" Punk laughs once they're out in the fresh air. The stupid grin is still on his face, and he's almost giggling to himself. "Can you get me to my hotel?" Punk's slumped against a wall, the giggles have subsided, he looks pale, his skin glistening in the dull streetlights, the snow falling landing in his hair, the white snow and dyed black hair making an interesting contrast.

"Yeah, yeah... C'mon." Randy takes a hold of Punk's bicep, pulling him off the wall. He starts walking, and flags down a cab. He'd gotten a ride to this club, and had intended to take a cab and a ringrat back to the hotel with him, but he supposes once he finishes with this bout of chivalry he can come back and achieve those two goals. In the cab, Punk curls in on himself, his head against his knees, his body trembling slightly. The cabbie keeps glancing back in the rear view mirror, the look on his face shows that he thinks Punk's going to puke, and part of Randy thinks that might be the case.

Once they've arrived at the hotel, Randy isn't sure what to do with Punk. He'd passed out at some stage on the ride back, and is nothing but dead weight against Randy's side. The smart thing to do would be to dump Punk back in his room, it'll be full of people who can take care of the unconscious Punk. He seems incapable of letting the ideals of his time on the Indys go, and always crams as many people into a hotel room as possible, but Randy has no idea where Punk's room is. It'll be a cheap one, but which cheap one he has no idea. That leaves him with only the option of taking Punk back to his room. He might not be a ringrat, but his ass is pretty enough, and all cats look grey, or at least grey enough, in the dark, not that Randy intends to take advantage of Punk. It's no fun fucking someone who's unconscious.

When they get to Randy's room, Punk seems to wake up some and he collapses on the bed, a smile on his face, his eyes half-closed. Randy hovers awkwardly near the sprawled figure. He's not nervous, he's not even overly concerned, he's just not sure what to do in this situation. He's dealt with drugged people before, but none of them have been Punk, none of them have been people he doesn't really know. That's about all Randy can say about Punk, he doesn't know the guy. Punk's not approachable; he has a reputation as a keen learner, but not a _friendly_ guy. Randy's never given two fucks about the guy, and probably won't until he's in the position to work with him again, or right now, because right now, Punk is sprawled over Randy's bed, his half-shut eyes focussing on Randy, a lazy, _sexy_ little smirk on his lips.

"Punk..." Randy starts, he's not uncomfortable, not exactly, it's just there's something that appeals to him about drugged up Punk, he's vulnerable in a way the prickly bastard isn't usually, and that's something that's making Randy feel on edge. The drugs in Punk's system have made him seem less like himself, and more like a target, which Randy supposes is what that gorilla back at the club had wanted.

"_Randal_." Punk singsongs his name, and Randy scowls at him, coming closer, not really sure why, but he steps closer to the bed all the same. "Randal... You know, that dude was gonna fuck me." Punk smirks slightly, his hands reaching for Randy's belt, pulling him closer by it. "You wanna take his place, Randal? You feeling _randy_?" He laughs, clearly amused by his own joke, and Randy stares down at the almost _cackling _Punk.

"Punk..." Randy tries to pry the long thin fingers from his belt, but Punk's fast, if uncoordinated, which shouldn't give him an advantage, but Randy's drunk, so he's slow and less able to keep a hold Punk's quick fingers, that dart around like dragonflies as he unbuckles Randy's belt. "_Punk_." Randy hisses, and Punk flops back against the bed, definitely cackling this time.

"C'mon, c'mon... Might as well enjoy it, Randal." Punk laughs, and Randy stares down at him. "C'mon, you'll enjoy it. I'm _told_ I'm a good fuck." Punk pulls his hoodie over his head, and Randy keeps staring.

"Punk, what if I don't want to fuck you? You ever think of that?" Randy steps away from the bed, all cats look more than grey enough when they're offering.

"Pff..." Punk laughs, and pulls his shirt over his head, levelling Randy with a hazily arrogant smirk. "Enough bullshit, Randal. Get over here, and get on with it. I got no idea how long this shit is gonna last, and I wanna fuck." There's a hint of Punk's normally condescending tone beneath the drugged amusement, and it almost makes Randy feel better. He grabs Punk's chin pulling him close, and claims his mouth with a kiss. "See, knew you'd be up for it." Punk laughs when Randy lets him go, flopping back against the bed. "C'mon, c'mon, pants off, shirt off." Punk kicks his sneakers off, and wriggles out of his pants with some awkward squirming. Randy stops paying attention to him and his drugged ramblings, and studies the bared flesh instead, the soundtrack is more off putting than anything, it's an odd reminder that this isn't _Punk_; this is some kind of doped-up hybrid. If it were Punk he wouldn't be here, if it were Punk Randy isn't sure he'd want him here. Yet, Punk is here, and Randy is pulling off his clothes, his cock getting interested in the prospect of being inside the naked body in front of it. "Fuck me, Randal... Isn't that impressive?" Punk grins, his eyes focussed on Randy's cock, and Randy shakes his head, his hand sliding through Punk's hair, pulling him up closer to his half-hard cock.

"Put that flapping mouth of yours to better use, Punk." He mutters, and Punk takes the head in, suckling at it, his tongue swirling, his teeth _just_ grazing the sensitive flesh. Randy lets his eyes drift closed, Punk gives good head, not too much tongue, not too much teeth, just good, damn near close to perfect. When he pulls his cock from Punk's mouth, it's shining with spit, and fully erect.

"_So..._ How'd you want me?" Punk grins, his thin lips slightly swollen, shiny, and stretched into a grin. Randy stares at him. It's a good question, and he's none too sure on the answer. Punk moves, resting on his hands and knees. "C'mon, c'mon! Let's go." He seems terribly keen, but Randy supposes that's the drugs in his system. Come the morning this is going to have been the worst, most terrible idea ever, Punk's going to be swinging for him Randy can tell, but right now, his ass is on display, and the little hole between his ass cheeks looks tight and ill-prepared for Randy's cock.

"Wait... Impatient asshole." Randy mutters, grabbing the bottle of lube from the nightstand. He'd intended to fuck whatever ringrat he brought back in the ass. It's a strange habit, but he isn't overly fond of condoms, and chicks don't get pregnant in their bums, granted he can still get STDs from it, but they check his piss often enough, and know him well enough to keep an eye out for anything untoward in it. The first slick finger that penetrates Punk has him moaning quietly, his hole suffocatingly tight around Randy's finger. "You have been fucked before, right?"

"_Yes_." Punk hisses as Randy wriggles a second finger into him. "A couple of times, some I've even been awake for... But at this rate not this time. Hurry the fuck up, Randal." Randy scissors his fingers, and Punk rocks back against his fingers. "C'mon we ain't got all night... This shit really is gonna make me pass out at this rate." There's a little part of Randy that's hoping that Punk is merely talking about how slow and careful he's being with the prep, but the larger part of him knows that Punk means whatever he was doped with.

"How did you get drugged anyways?" Randy eases a third finger into Punk, adding more lube, and stretching him open carefully.

"I never remember to guard my drink quite as I should... You know, I never do suspect people of wanting to fuck me enough to drug me... Course, maybe he didn't wanna fuck me, maybe he just wanted to fuck me up, that's happened... Ah! There... That's good." Punk moans low and deep as Randy rubs over his prostate.

"Here? This little spot right here?" Randy presses against the little bump gently, and Punk moans, his legs spreading wider, his back arching. Randy watches his back, watches little beads of sweat forming on it, and tries not to think of what Punk had just said. By Punk's words, he's been drugged before, he's had this happen to him _several_ times, more than once he's been fucked, and at least once he's been beaten. Randy is beginning to think he's going to have to buy Punk a Christmas present this year, a tippy cup for him to take on nights out, something to make it more difficult for would be dopers. "You ready?" Randy pulls his fingers from Punk, and slicks his cock, resting the head against Punk's hole.

"Yeah, yeah... C'mon." Punk moans, trying to thrust back, and Randy's hands hold his hips. "I was serious you know... I really will pass out, Randal." His words are slightly slurred, and Randy leans over, pressing a tiny kiss to Punk's shoulder as he enters his body, sheathing himself inside Punk in one slow, but firm, thrust. Punk's ass is grippingly tight, his body moving fluidly with Randy's movements. Sex and wrestling at the two things Randy _knows_ he's good at, if wrestling hadn't worked out, the porn industry would have gained a consummate performer in Randy, but as it turned out wrestling worked out okay. Randy's sure that some people would resent that fact, but fact it is, and there's no changing that. Though if the WWE ever do partner with Brazzers, Randy would take a job.

"Harder." Punk moans, and Randy snorts, slowing his hips, fucking Punk with long, slow thrusts. "C'mon... _Harder_." Punk rocks back into Randy, and he stills, letting Punk fuck himself on his cock.

"Faster." Randy leans over his back, and murmurs in his ears. Punk pays attention, he moves faster, all but slamming his hips back into Randy, moaning quietly. "That's it... Fuck me, fuck my cock." Randy smirks when Punk speeds up again, his body clinging to his dick, almost like it's resentful of having to let go when Punk moves forward. "You like this, Punk? You like a cock in your ass?"

"Huh?" Punk moans, he's clearly not really paying attention, and Randy can't say he blames him, coherency is over-rated in situations like this, when all that matters is the slap of flesh on flesh, and the feeling of something too big being driven somewhere too tight. Randy rears back, and takes a hold of Punk's hips, pulling him back onto his cock, thrusting deeper into Punk's ass. Punk gasps, and Randy smirks at his back, he rests one hand between Punk's shoulder blades and presses down on them, making him raise his ass slightly.

"That's it... Gonna fuck you as hard as you need it, Punk." Randy laughs at the vague, unintelligible noise Punk makes, and makes good on his promise, pounding into Punk's body. He can tell the exact moment Punk takes his cock in his hand, can feel the difference in how Punk's body tightens just a shade. It seems like Punk is chasing his orgasm, like he's looking to end this quickly, and when he comes, his ass tightens to the point that there's almost no way Randy can move inside him, so instead he stills, and lets Punk ride his ending out. Once he's come, Randy goes to work, moving Punk to lie flat on his stomach, and fucking his ass hard and fast. There's a part of Randy that's certain, and a little proud, that Punk _will_ feel this in the morning. Once Randy's come he realises that Punk had passed out after he came, his body limp and satiated. There's an awful awkward moment where Randy isn't sure what to do now. There's an unconscious Punk in his bed, covered in his own cum, and filled with Randy's. He's no idea what Punk will do in the morning, but for now Randy supposes the only thing to do is go to sleep, and hope that the morning isn't too strange, though how it's going to be anything but just that he has no idea. There's no way this isn't going to be the most awkwardly uncomfortable morning after in the history of morning afters.

Randy wakes up to an empty bed, and the sound of the shower shutting off. He lies in bed, pretending to be asleep as he watches Punk getting dried, and starting to get dressed.

"You don't have to go, Punk." Randy murmurs quietly, staring at the other man. There's an odd set to Punk's shoulders, something oddly cheerful. Randy had expected _anything _other than this; Punk seems fine, _happy_ almost. For a man who was drugged with the intention of rape behind it, and then fucked by a colleague, happy is not how he should be the next morning.

"Randy, you and I are very different people..." Punk starts, then smirks. "We had awesome drugged Punk sex, and that's all there is to it. Don't worry, you didn't take advantage of me, believe me I've been taken advantage of before and that wasn't it. You don't need to apologise, you don't need to feel guilty, alls you need to do is let it go." Punk smiles slightly, finishing pulling his clothes on, and tying back his long hair.

"That's happened before? You've fucked guys you work with?" Randy knows that Punk's looking to get out of this hotel room, and back down to his own, where there's probably a half dozen wrestlers mixed in with the sports entertainers. Punk doesn't have too many friends in the WWE, his friends are out on the Indys, and they're the people Punk would clearly rather be with. If the Office cared about making Punk happy, they'd hire half of the ROH roster no questions asked, but the people who make the decisions aren't overly invested in making Punk happy. In all honesty, Randy isn't too invested in making Punk happy, apart from last night. He's not sure how Punk can be so nonchalant about this whole thing. He was drugged by a man that intended to rape him. If it hadn't been for Randy that plan would have succeeded, and Punk would have been raped. Instead, he'd had strange drugged sex with Randy, and there's not one bit of Randy that sees that as an improvement. Punk was drugged, and taken advantage of, that's all there is to it. It feels like a debt that needs to be repaid, and Randy doesn't like that feeling.

"Yeah... Once or twice. Meh, it's nothing. You've been STD tested, right?" Punk asks, a slight smirk on his lips, and Randy nods. He's been tested for STDs, his wife insists on it, it's better to be safe than sorry after all. It's kind of depressing that she's accepting of the fact that Randy cheats on her, but he can't really argue with that. He does, and whilst he could help it, he doesn't, so the Office, and his wife, make sure he's clean in all senses of the word. "Alright then." Punk laughs, shoving his shoes on. "Thank you for keeping my ass from that dude." He laughs again, and Randy sits up, a scowl on his face. He's not sure what to make of this. It's almost like Punk is fully accepting of the fact that he could have been raped, is completely and utterly fine with it, and that is just fucked up.

"Punk... Man, if you wanna talk..." Randy trails off, not sure where he's going with this. He's not Punk's friend, he's no intentions even _trying_ to be Punk's friend, he doesn't really like the miserable fucker, but last night had been wrong on so many levels. It's not guilt, Randy's pretty sure he doesn't _do_ guilt, but it's something, and it needs to be addressed.

"If I wanted to talk, I have plenty of people I'd want to listen, Randy. Relax... You're not one of them." Punk laughs, heading for the door. "Look, don't stress over it. It's just a thing that happened... Think of it as an early Christmas present."

"I already know what I'm getting you for Christmas." Randy mutters, and Punk laughs leaving the room. He clearly thinks Randy is joking, but he's not, and he's sure that there's an old tippy cup somewhere in his house he can re-gift to Punk.

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><p><em>Thank you to my dear <strong>veomuertos<strong> (I accept full blame for OT3),** and littleone1389** (you're welcome!) for the reviews. :3_

_Up fifth we have **Baby it's Cold Outside**. I like this song, but the whole "What's in this drink?" line... That's kinda messed up..._

_Not much is set in stone for these fics - so if you'd like to fire me a song and pairing combo in a PM, I'll have a listen and see what I can come up with._

**_You can't give me an apple _****_for Christmas _****_like my students are already doing , but you can give me a review! ;)_**


	6. Good King Wenceslas

_Warnings: AU, Mild Profanity, Ambrose/Rollins/Reigns fluff-tastic friendship fluff._

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><p>The King was standing looking out of his window, watching the snowfall. The sun was high in the sky, and whilst its rays were bright and warm, they did nothing to ease the chill from the thick blanket of snow on the ground. Through the snow, near the edge of the forest, a thin figure was picking up sticks, a long saw in one hand, and a bushel on his back. The King watched apathetically as the man tossed the sticks into his basket.<p>

"Page!" The King calls, and there's a snort of displeasure from behind him.

"How many times? I'm not a _page_ any more, Roman." The displeased voice comes closer, and the King laughs at his oldest, _dearest_ advisor. There's a scowl on his face, and Roman nudges him with his shoulder.

"How many times, Seth, it's _Sire_, not Roman." The King laughs, and his advisor snorts dismissively again.

"There ain't nobody here to be standing on ceremony with, so I'll call you whatever I want." Seth laughs, and leans against the King slightly. "What is it anyways?" He asks, snuggling up to the King when he wraps an arm around him.

"Who's that?" He points to the figure on the edge of the woods, and Seth steps away peering out of the window.

"Some peasant? I dunno... I _think_ it's the guy who lives down on the other side of the woods." Seth shrugs and looks at Roman, a hard look filling his eyes. "No. I can hear what you're going to say, and the answer is no. We can't go gallivanting around on some stupid mercy mission in the dead of Winter." Roman laughs at Seth, and steps away from the window, clapping, summoning guards.

"Have the kitchens send up a picnic, and some skins of wine. Myself, and Rollins are taking a stroll." The King commands, and the guards scurry away to fulfil his wishes.

"No. As your staunchest advisor, I _advise_ no." Seth tries to sound commanding, but it's mostly just pleading, and Roman laughs easily.

"C'mon, it's Christmas. Think of it as a good deed." Roman starts pulling on thicker robes, and Seth folds his arms, a stern look on his face. "I'll take another with me, if you're so given to being disagreeable." Roman laughs again, and Seth sighs dramatically, before leaving the chamber, coming back mere minutes later, wrapped in his warmest clothing.

They set off shortly after, the King carrying the heavier of the two packs, a veritable feast in it, Seth carrying a smaller, lighter pack with some warm sturdy clothes in it, and an axe in his belt. Roman had been evasive as to why they had the axe, and Seth is sure he already knows, so he didn't bother to ask. The trek is long, and arduous, the light failing, the snow growing heavier, and heavier.

"It's freezing." Seth snarls from beside Roman, and he turns to him, an awkward smile on his face.

"Yes... It's a little cold." Roman deadpans, and Seth growls, looking like he might throw a punch at the King.

"A _little_ cold... A _little _cold! It's _fucking _freezing, and you're all its a little cold... This is a stupid idea! You're going to get us frozen, and all to feed some guy you don't know." Seth's rant seems to have warmed him up some, he's moving through the snow with purpose, ploughing onwards to where the peasant lives.

"It's a little cold, and I have a proposition for him." Roman smiles, and Seth turns to him, a scowl on his face.

"A proposition? What proposition? As your advisor-"

"You advise me to run stupid ideas past you first?" Roman laughs, and Seth nods, a smirk on his face.

"Yes, you big idiot... I swear, its birth-right and looks that got you this gig, not brains." He sighs, and Roman nods, on that count Seth is correct, it was birthright that got him the position of King.

"I don't need brains. I have an advisor who's full of good advice." Roman grins at Seth, and catches his wrist. "Walk in my tracks, you'll be less cold." Seth sighs, but does as Roman asks, knowing better than to argue. Roman is many things, but tolerant of people rejecting his kindness is not one of them. A good deed is to be accepted graciously in the mind of the King.

"Well... We're here." Seth pants, there's snow clinging to his fur-trimmed robe, and to his beard. He looks utterly miserable, and there's a protective part of Roman that feels guilty for letting his friend get into this state. "Shall I knock on the door then?" He clumps up to the door of the little shack, and knocks. It takes some time before the door swings open, and the peasant who had been collecting sticks is standing before them, still mostly wrapped up against the cold.

"What?" He drawls, and Roman smiles as kindly as he can manage in the face of the cold, and the apathy from the peasant.

"May we come in?" He asks kindly, and the peasant scowls at him.

"I ain't got nothing." He folds his arms over his chest, and this time Seth sighs, his hand reaching out and snagging the back of the peasant's neck.

"_We've come here bearing gifts for your ungrateful ass. Now let us in before I freeze to death_." He hisses, and the peasant's eyes narrow.

"Who are you people, anyways?"

"Well, I'm Ki-"

"Kindly souls from the Church." Seth smiles, his hand clamped over Roman's mouth.

"The Church? Fine, fine..." The peasant steps back, and Seth ushers Roman into the shack. Inside is nothing but a rough bench, a table and a fire pit, with a small crackling flame. Roman sets the pack on his back down on the table, and Seth opens it, spreading the contents over the table. The peasant stares at the food being spread over the table.

"Come, eat, drink, and make merry with us. We are here as guests and well-wishers, nothing more, nothing less." Seth waves to the food, and the peasant sighs, fetching three rough wooden cups from a small chest near the bench. Roman pours the wine, and hands the peasant a cup.

"My friend, I have seen you out in the woods, from Spring to Winter... Always busy, always working." The King has a smile on his face, a kindly expression, but the peasant looks suspicious.

"You hear to warn me to stop poaching the King's deer? Look, the asshole has more than enough deer. He can share." The peasant sniffs the wine cautiously, and Seth takes a drink, the peasant looks at Roman expectantly, and the King takes a sip, it's only after some time has passed does the peasant drink as well.

"Very well, he can share very well." Roman smiles at the peasant and holds out his hand. "My name is Roman, and this is my dear friend Seth." Seth nods, and the peasant wipes his hand on his pants, the suspicious look returning to his face.

"Dean." He shakes the King's hand with a firm, sure grip, and then takes Seth's. "So, you're here to feed me, and then leave, right?"

"Well... It's late, and..." Seth trails off; the idea of trekking back to the castle in the dark is far from appealing.

"Well, there's the floor." Dean looks unimpressed with them both, and Roman smiles, he looks like he is excited by the prospect of sleeping as the peasants do. In truth, that is almost the case, his whole life he's been pampered, it's always interesting to see how the other half live.

They talk for many hours of nothing important; Dean is knowledgeable, and quick-witted, sharp enough to match Seth's caustic tongue, and interesting enough to hold the King's often-wandering mind. They've finished two of the three skins of wine before Dean says anything of importance.

"You know..." His voice is calm, and there's a lazy smile on his face. "Kings aren't meant to dine with the peasantry." Roman looks shocked, and Dean laughs. Seth smirks, then finishes his wine, and pours out three more cups.

"It's Christmas, it's time for sharing." Seth shrugs, Roman laughs, and Dean shakes his head, sipping at his wine, a thoughtful look on his face.

"Racking up heavenly brownie points." He takes up a hunk of cheese, nibbling at it. "He who blesses the poor, finds blessings himself." There's an awkward pause, a silence falling over the three, the warm _easy_ conversation forgotten.

"A king needs no more blessing than a well-tended forest, and a happy huntsman." Roman sets a sheet of paper on the table, and Dean looks at it.

"I don't read, and I don't write." He snaps, biting the cheese in his hand viciously.

"You hunt, you tend the woods, and you can put an X on a page." Seth snaps back, a smirk on his face. It's a nice Christmas gift, and if nothing else, it seems like Dean might be an interesting addition to the staff. The fuss he'll cause by walking into court will be entertaining if nothing else.

"I guess..." Dean takes up the pen Seth sets down, and draws a circle at the bottom of the contract; it looks like a crude wobbly D. The new addition to the staff is a contrary man it seems. Seth rolls his eyes, and snags a slab of cured beef, toasting the new Huntsman, getting a smirk from him, but all the King does is laugh, and set the axe, marked with the Royal seal, on the table.

"Then Merry Christmas, my _happy_ Huntsman."

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><p><em>Thank you to my dear <strong>xLifeFullOfLaughterx, Rebellecherry, Anon<strong>__(x2? Just one, I dunno but thank you!)__**and littleone1389** for the reviews. :3_

_Up sixth we have **Good King Wenceslas**. This song brings back memories... Banana milkshake tinged memories..._

_Not much is set in stone for these fics - so if you'd like to fire me a song and pairing combo in a PM, I'll have a listen and see what I can come up with._

**_You can't give me an apple _****_for Christmas _****_like my students are already doing, but you can give me a review! ;)_**


	7. The Christmas Song

_Warnings: 1st person Punk POV, PROFANITY, Minor Slash (Cena/Cabana)._

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><p>"Very funny." Cabana sounds pissed, and honestly, I've got no idea why. There's <em>literally<em> nothing I've done to piss off the idiot, so why he's showing up at my house in a mood, I've got no clue.

"Excuse me?" He looks sceptical, and I'm pleading innocence here, I've done _nothing_.

"A fucking dozen roses? C'mon, very funny Punkers." He snorts, and flops down on the couch beside me. You'd think that for most people roses on Valentine's Day would be a compliment, but apparently, my asshole best friend thinks they're some kind of practical joke played by me. He tosses a little card into my lap, and I pick it up.

_I'll give you the ride of your life, my little pony._

"Nothing to do with me, man... I'd say something way wittier." I laugh, and he snorts. "What? Was probably some fan."

"Yeah, probably." He sighs, and I nod sagely at my own wisdom, thinking nothing more of the whole thing, but the handwriting does look _vaguely_ familiar, I'm sure I've seen it before, but I've no idea where. It's probably the chick at the flower store, fuck knows I've had to buy many flowers over the years, and florists are probably trained to have nice, if loopy writing.

I didn't think about Colt's flowers after that, I put it entirely out of my mind, and kept on as normal, going to work, being pissed off with work, bitching to Colt about work, normal every day things. The next big deal for me was Mania. This saw me wrestling as Champion, but firmly not in the main event. It doesn't matter how much these assholes try to spin it, there's one main event, and there's some fucker in the Office who doesn't want me to have it. It's fucking annoying, but next year it'll be mine. I don't have too many goals left in this place, but that is one, and I'm getting that fucking main event.

Cabana is here for WrestleCon, doing a whole bunch of stuff that in all honesty sounds a hell of a lot more fun than the shit I'm doing. It's ridiculous to be jealous, but ninety percent of the time, my best friend seems to be having a hell of a lot better time than I am. I have to remind myself that I'm living my dream, working in my dream job, and being jealous of being out on the hustle, hanging out with Marty, doing comedy, having _fun_, that's not my dream. It sucks that I have to remind myself of that.

"The right guy won." Cena's hand is on Colt's shoulder as he talks, and in my mind I can see a look of confusion cross over Cabana's face. I can almost hear his thought process, dear Cabana will be thinking _but you lost_, not realising that Cena was talking about me, and not himself.

"But _you_ lost." I _knew_ that was what he was going to say, and Marty cracks up. Colt's standing with his back to me, but I can see Cena's face just fine, and it looks weirdly like he's hurt by what Colt just said.

"_No_, Punk." He stresses the no, and I can hear Colt laughing, weirdly there's an almost _fond_ smile on Cena's face, and I've no idea what to make of that.

"Ooooh... Yeah, well yeah. He should have had his main event too, but I guess _once in a lifetime, _right." Colt laughs again, and there's that look of _hurt_ again from Cena.

"Yeah... _Yeah_, maybe next year." Cena smiles awkwardly, and Colt nods. "So... Uh... I... I saw... I'm a _huge_ fan of Matt Classic." Cena's smile gets bigger, and alls Colt does is laugh, clearly thinking Cena's bullshitting him, which I don't think is the case. There's something _desperately _earnest about Cena's face just then. "Umm... You gotta tell me what you're up to." If I didn't know better I'd swear there was a blush on Cena's face when he meets my eyes over Colt's shoulder.

"Hey Bana!" I think this is a weird situation that I should be being a good best friend in, so I rescue Colt from a pissed off and glaring Cena, to be fair, he only started glaring when Colt hugged me. There's definitely something fucking weird going on with Cena, but what I've got no fucking clue. One minute he's nice as pie, the next he's got his Cold as Ice John Cena death-ray glare on. Weird bastard that he is.

"Hey Cena!" I catch up to John, he looks stressed and tired, but really everyone backstage is, I know I am, but I'm champ, gotta set an example for the boys, and keep my bitching as a Colt Cabana exclusive because I'm sure as hell doing a lot of that lately. Cabana keeps telling me to chill, to let things go, but it's all notches on my very frustrated frustration badge. God bless that idiot best friend of mine, and his inability to use the English language properly nine times out of ten. The fact that he's built his following based on nothing but talking is at once a stroke of genius, and completely moronic, at least he's a fucking endearing bastard, even if he does fuck up words so often. Cena's been a lot more friendly since Mania, keeps asking me about my life back home, about my friends, and I guess he's just being nice, but really it _feels_ like there's something more behind it all.

"What's up Punk?" There's something weirdly hopeful about Cena's tone, and I'm beginning to get a little worried about that. He's always so god damn happy when I talk to him, I might need to sit him down and be all _look John, I'm flattered, but unless you've got a pussy in those jorts I ain't interested. _It'd be weird and awkward, so I hope I'm just reading too much into this.

"You wanna come to my Fourth of July party?" It's only polite to ask work friends, and really I think the girlfriend would appreciate seeing some of her old colleagues, even I'm sick to the back teeth of the fuckers, it pays to keep your woman happy if nothing else.

"Who's gonna be there?" More hope, and I'm really hoping that I don't need to have that conversation. It'd be too fucking weird for me, and who knew that John Cena was playing for the other team? I sure as hell didn't, and I wonder if Vince does, I wonder if it'd affect Cena's Golden Goose status if he found out, I wonder a whole bunch of things apparently.

"A bunch of people... A whole bunch you won't know and some you will." I can't help but laugh at the face he pulls, it's like he's trying to keep the urge to smack me in check, so clearly there's a name he _wanted_ me to say that my evasive answer didn't provide, the question is who is it John Cena wants to be at my party.

"Will... Uh... I mean..." I've known Cena a long time, I've been his friend for less, but in all the time I've been in his company I've never heard him fumble for words like this. "Will Colt be there?"

"Bana?" I think I sound shocked, mostly because I am, but there's something click-click-clicking in my brain. The conversation back at Mania, how dejected Cena looked when Colt had scoffed _But you lost_ at him, the glare I assumed was for Colt, but I'm thinking that it wasn't. It's not me that needs to worry about letting Cena down gently; it's my idiot best friend. "Nah... He's gonna be in Canada, but plenty of other people you know." A _slightly_ miserable look flits over Cena's face, and I really need to tell Colt about this, but it might be more fun to leave it, and see how this plays out. It's a tough call to make, but wait and see sounds more fun to me.

"Sorry, Punk. I gotta go see my family. Next party though, I'll be there." Cena smiles at me, and there's more clicking in my brain.

"Sure... _Sure..._ So I'll RSVP you for my birthday then. No way Cabana's gonna miss that one." I throw it out there, just testing the waters, and a _hint_ of a smile creeps over Cena's face. I am so right, John Cena has a crush on my Colt, and this is either the most hilarious or most tragic thing I've ever witnessed in my life.

"_Sure_, I'll be there." He leaves, and I can't help but cackling, getting some odd looks and wide berths from the other people in the corridor.

My birthday rolls around quickly enough, and Cena shows up at my house dressed as what I'm guessing is a psychopath, because he just looks pretty normal to me, but then again maybe, I forgot to tell him it was a Halloween themed party.

"What the fuck do we have here?" Compton drawls from behind me, and I turn to him with a laugh.

"The champ is here." I smirk, and Compton shakes his head.

"Yeah... Try not to use any death-rays." He tells Cena, getting an oddly dejected look from him, and Compton wanders off in search of more booze and chicks. I'm not sure there's a single woman in the place that hasn't been offered to see Compton's cock, alcohol is the worst pick-up line.

"You didn't say this was a costume party." Cena mutters in my ear, and I shrug. I guess I forgot, but he does look nice, and really, he can just claim being a serial killer. Those fuckers always look normal. The more normal a person is the more likely they are to be a motherfucking murdering scumbag. It's never the people who look like lunatics who've been snuffing little old ladies for years; it's the guy who seems normal. Normal people are the scourge of the Earth.

"Slipped my mind... Now if you'll excuse me, I have other people to go be wished happy birthday by... Oh by the way, it's Compton's birthday party too, be nice." Cliff's Colt's friend too, if Cena wants to make a good impression on Bana, he's gonna need to make one on Compton, as well as me, and of course his comedy partner. "DeRosa!" I turn and smack straight into a slightly inebriated Marty. "You remember Cena, right?" Marty looks utterly unimpressed, and then squints at Cena.

"John Cena's in your house?" He asks, and I nod, scanning the crowd, trying to find Bana. I'm not going to get my amusement out of watching Cena trying to hit on Colt, if the fucker isn't around to be hit on.

"Marty, this is Cena. Cena, this is Marty, Colt's _partner_." I don't specify what kind of partner, and Cena pales slightly, a kind of malaise creeping into his eyes.

"_Comedy_ partner." Marty clarifies, and I almost want to curse him for ruining the free entertainment of watching Cena trying to keep his jealousy in check, but I guess Marty is a better person, with less insight in to the hilarity of the situation, than I am.

"Yeah, yeah... Bana's comedy _partner_. On the subject of my Bana, where is he?" It's far too entertaining watching Cena bristle every time Colt's name, but if I'm not careful the fucker really might swing for me, which won't endear him to Colt even if it is me being a dick that's the cause of the violence. Colt's loyal to me if nothing else.

"I dunno." Marty shrugs, and shakes the hand Cena had stuck out. I really need to teach this asshole how to greet my friends, handshakes and standing on parade isn't going to cut it with this lot, I don't know if that's how things work in his social circle outside of Orton, but in mine handshakes are kept for locker rooms and when you're in a suit.

I leave a strained looking Mary guarding Cena, and go in search of Colt, tracking him down by the cake, looking guilty but pleased with himself.

"Happy Birthday, Punkers." He pulls me into a hug, and over his shoulder, I spot Cena scowling at me again. If John-boy has a crush, he really should maybe consider mentioning it to the guy he has a crush on, and not spend his time glaring at the guy's best friend. It's not going to fly with Cabana, he'll get the wrong end of the stick, which'll be _messy_, and not in the way Cena would like. Oh god, _horrible_ mental image, never am I thinking of Cena and Bana in a sexual situation again.

"Yeah, blah, blah, blah. You ate all my cake, fucker?" Cabana hands me a slice, then drags me off to somewhere quieter, a look on his face like he wants to talk.

"Cold as Ice wants to fucking kill me. He's been glaring at me all night... I swear, I'm either leaving or punching the guy." Colt's scowling, and I'm beginning to wonder just how exactly my best friend has made it through life with so few fights to his name. He clearly can't tell the difference between gazing like a lovesick puppy, and glaring like a psychopath, but looking at Cena right now, I can kind of see Colt's point.

"He likes you." I offer, trying to help Cena out, but really the fucker isn't making it easy, he really does look like he wants to kill, granted it's me he's glaring at, but I'm still stood by Colt, the object of his glare could be either one of us. Cena needs acting lessons or at least advise on aiming his glares.

"He _likes_ you, you're his friend, and see _death-ray_!" I laugh at Colt, and turn to smile at Cena, hoping to inspire something like a smile from him, but alls he does is grimace slightly, turning to talk to the person beside him. Jesus, he's horrible at this. How the hell did that inept moron get a wife?

"He's a big fan?" I try, and Colt laughs, throwing his arm around my shoulder.

"Of Matt Classic, as we all are... He's a cool guy." He laughs again, and I join in, it might not be funny, but fuck it, it's my birthday party and I can laugh at shitty non-jokes with my best friend if I want to, and get glared at by Cena no matter what I do apparently.

"You know, don't you?" It's just after Thanksgiving, when Cena corners me, a scowl on his face, and I smile in a way that I know I've borrowed from Colt, all sheepishly innocent and adorable.

"I know what?" I am, however, incredibly bad at sheepish. My knee hurts like a motherfucker, fucking with Cena and his kind of hilarious crush on Cabana is good for taking my mind off the pain, and knowing that I'm stuck with Steroid Guy. It's cruel, but no one's ever said I was anything but a jerk.

"You're an asshole, and I fucking hate you." Cena snaps, rubbing his injured elbow, and I laugh at him. Asshole I may be, but at least I'm not a fucking _idiot_ with a crush on an even bigger idiot.

"C'mon... I'm not gonna help you land Bana with that kind of attitude." The comment was worth it solely for the look of utter shock and horror on Cena's face. He might have suspected I knew, but for me to be so casual about it? Well, he wasn't expecting that.

"You _help_? You've been sabotaging me since Valentine's!" Cena snaps, and I'd really hoped that Cena had more sense than to send flowers to Colt, but apparently not. Flowers and cards that referenced My Little Pony too, I never knew Cena was a Bronie till now.

"You don't need help with that, you've got sabotaging yourself down to an art form, Cena... It's managing anything else that's the problem." I mutter, and Cena frowns, sitting down beside me. My cell chirps, and I know without looking that'll be Colt. There aren't too many other people who text me as regularly as my best friend. "You wanna answer him?" I hold the cell out to Cena, and he stares at me, then at the cell in my hand. I'd never realised that Cena went to the Joey Tribbiani School of Acting until that moment. He needs some serious lessons, and at least his shitty movies would be slightly less shitty if nothing else.

"I couldn't... I wouldn't... I _can't_, Punk." Cena looks utterly pathetic, and I've _never_ seen anyone look so pitiful over Colt before. It's sweet, in a kind of pathetic way.

"Jesus... How did you get a wife?" I shoot a reply off, knowing that Cabana's response will come shortly after. "Look... _This_ is Colt's number. _Talk_ to him, asshole." I scrawl Bana's number down and force it into Cena's hand, managing not to laugh through sheer force of will at the kid on Christmas morning face he pulls.

"Who's number is this?" Colt tosses me his cell maybe a week later, and there's a dozen calls all from the same number, all from Cena. At least he's calling, but by the sounds of things, he's not talking.

"How the fuck should I know? You tried asking them?" I snap back, I'm tired, I'm sore, and Cena's an idiot who's going to need some more pushing in the right direction.

"They hang up before I can talk, and the fucker doesn't answer if I call. It's fucking weird man, fucking _weird_." I hand his cell back, and flop down on the couch by him.

"I dunno, probably just a fan." I shrug, and I guess that's true enough. Cena's a _fan _alright, but fucking inept at seduction. I've giving him every opportunity to make a play for Colt, and he's fucking butt dialling him. I need to give that big fucking moron a good talking to, and with Christmas coming up, I guess playing a hybrid Santa/Cupid is reasonable enough.

"Why am I in Chicago?" I persuaded Cena to come visit, it took a lot of wheedling, and the promise of spending some quality time with me but mostly Colt to convince him, and thankfully it worked, he's here. The only problem now is how to get him to just fucking _tell_ Colt that he has a crush on the goofball, without it all going wrong. To the best of my considerable knowledge, Colt isn't gay, of course having said that, I didn't think Cena was either, but I've know Colt _forever_, Cena's a work friend, not a life one, so he could, conceivably hide things like that from me, Colt on the other hand, I know every fucking thing about that goofy idiot, and never once have I suspected he might be gay.

"You're in Chicago because I'm sick of this shit." I tell him, and he winces. I think I'm laying the protective best friend shtick on a little thick, but seriously, I am _so_ over this teenage crush bullshit. "You wanna fuck Colt, right?"

"_No_!" John turns to me in horror, and I think I might have been reading him all wrong till he smiles. "I wanna talk to him, I wanna get to know him, I wanna..." He smiles with a look that belongs on the face of a fourteen-year-old girl, not a fully-grown muscle bound man. "I wanna make love to him in the studio... Ah-partment." He laughs, and there's a part of me that just died. I don't know if it died from laughing or horror, but I assure you, it's fucking dead.

"In Chicago, Illinois? Blah, blah, blah. You're not gonna be doing any of that sitting in my house. I'm gonna show you where he lives, and you're gonna fucking tell him exactly that." I pause, and consider this a little more carefully. "Maybe not that you wanna fuck him... That might not go over so well, but getting to know, talking, maybe manly snuggling whilst watching Comedy Central, that'll go over better... Bana's very snugglely, and I'm willing to give up snuggles for your benefit..." Cena actually fucking growls at me, and I can't help but laugh at this stupid asshole. "For fuck sake, Cena! I'm his _best _friend."

"You've _been_ with him." He accuses me flatly, and there's no way I can't not laugh at that. I don't care what the saying says, there's not enough dark to make Cabana look like the kind of cat I like.

"_Really_? No, Cena, just no." Cena looks contrite, an awkward little smile creeping onto his face.

"Sorry... I'm just... I don't want to _think_ about someone else's hands-"

"Yeah... I get the picture." I really don't need to hear Cena swooning over Colt anymore; I don't think I needed to hear it in the first place to be honest.

"So you really think I should just go talk to him? I don't wanna go empty handed... I mean, I should get him a Christmas present, but that'd be rude, I mean he's Jewish, and I don't want him to think I'm rude, but he already thinks I hate him... How could he think that? I don't glare at him! I've _never_ stared a death-ray at him! How could I? How could _anyone_ wish death on Colt? He's-"

"Jesus, _stop_! For the sake of my sanity, please just stop. No presents, no gimmicks, no nothing! Just go talk to him. Go on, go, leave!" Cena looks at me blankly, and he can't just leave because I've not showed him where Cabana lives yet, I knew that, I was just testing him, and not just wanting to be way from him and his weird crush induced rambling.

"So just talking?" I'm beginning to think Cena wants me to come hold his hand, and explain to Colt how he feels myself, but fuck me, I am never saying the phrase _make love in the studio apartment_ ever, even on the pain of death.

"Uh... No actually, c'mon." I drag Cena down to China town, Cabana has a fucking weird thing for roast chestnuts, and they sell them there. It'll look better if Cena comes bearing gifts, especially edible gifts.

"Really?" Cena looks fucking unimpressed, and he's going to get a fucking punch if he isn't careful.

"Really. Now, go... Talk, not backing out, no running away." I knock on the door, and run, hiding down the first flight, listening to Cena stumblingly offering the chestnuts to a bemused Cabana.

_Why is Cena at my house? - Cabana_

_Ask him! - sent_

I don't get anything back for a while, a long while, _hours_ in fact, and I'm almost worried that when I do get something, I'm gonna have to help find somewhere to hide the body. I'm hoping that's not the case, but as I sat catching up on TV shows I never have time for, worry was beginning to creep in, and a little happiness. A dead Cena would mean that there's no doubting that I'm the top draw, not that I want Cena dead, but you know, PMA and all that.

_How long did you know about this you fucking asshole? - Cabana_

_Long enough. - sent_

_Long enough? You dick. - Cabana_

_So... What did you say? Did you say yes? Did you say you have a crush too? Do you have a crush? I have to know! I want details, lots of details... Juicy, exciting details! - Sent_

My cell rings, and I answer without checking the name, I _know_ it's Cabana calling me with my _juicy_ details. What I didn't expect was the smugly self-satisfied voice of Cena saying _Merry Christmas, dick_ and hanging up.

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><p><em>Thank you to my dear <strong>littleone 1389, AshJovillette,<strong>** and Rebellecherry **for the reviews. :3_

_Up seventh we have **The Christmas Song**. This was a request from _**veomuertos**, and I had a damned good time with it. I can only hope it's somewhat you were hoping for. :3__

_Not much is set in stone for these fics - so if you'd like to fire me a song and pairing combo in a PM, I'll have a listen and see what I can come up with._

**_You can't give me an apple _****_for Christmas _****_like my students are already doing , but you can give me a review! ;)_**


	8. Jingle Bell Rock

_Warnings: Slash __(Ambrose/Rollins),__ Mild Profanity, Smut._

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><p>It's perfect. There's absolutely no doubt in Seth's mind that the set up he has is utterly, and completely perfect. From the roaring open fire, to the hot chocolate, to the little fluffy marshmallows melting in it, to the thick warm blanket, to the snow falling outside, to the big tree in the corner. If this doesn't scream festive seduction, nothing will. Now all he needs is the last piece of the picture, but in typical Ambrose style, he's <em>fashionably<em> late. So, Seth's pacing the floor, waiting for him to show up. He'd given strict orders that they were going to be doing something _festive_, and there's a little part of him that's worried that Dean, being Dean, will misinterpret this somehow and come in an ugly sweater and_ Santa with Muscles _under his arm. It's depressingly more likely than him showing up with some wine to mull, and some mincemeat pies, but there's a _tiny_ part of Seth that hopes that what he'll do.

"Hey... Sorry I'm late, the snow's fucking nuts." Seth doesn't turn around at the sound of Dean's voice, instead choosing to live in his desperate delusion that this is going to go exactly to plan a little longer, because he _knows_ that as soon as he turns to look at Dean, the whole idea is going to go out of the window. Nothing ever goes quite according to plan with Dean, it's the one thing you can bank on, him somehow, and someway screwing up what was a solid and foolproof, but not Dean-proof, plan. "This is... Uh... _Christmassy_." Dean laughs, and Seth finally turns to look at him.

"What the fuck are you wearing?" It's a legitimate question, because it's definitely not what Seth was expecting. It's not his normal clothes, it's not an incredibly ugly festive sweater, it's a Santa costume, a surprisingly nice, well made Santa costume, the hat with a little jingle bell on the end of it with the big fluffy white pompom.

"You said festive... Ain't nothing more festive than old Saint Nick." Dean laughs, and Seth shakes his head, at once surprised, and utterly not. Dean is a man you can't plan for, and you can't second-guess because he'll _always_ surprise you. "So... You been a good little boy this year, Seth?" Dean laughs and sits on the couch, patting his knee. Seth snorts, and goes to the kitchen, fetching the coco, and hands one to Santa Dean.

"I've been good enough. Drink up D-"

"Santa, little boy, Santa." He laughs, and Seth raises an eyebrow. He's not entirely sure he wants to be referring to Dean as Santa, but between the hat and beard, there's not much of him that looks like himself, so for now Santa is an acceptable title, but he's not being _little boy _for much longer, it's too weird, and too kinky for his liking.

"Yeah, alright Santa, but my name's Seth, none of this _little boy_ crap." There's something intrinsically wrong about swearing in front of Santa Claus, even if he is Dean Ambrose in a costume.

"Yeah, yeah... I'm sensing that _perhaps_ coming in costume wasn't quite what you were thinking of when you said festive, huh?" Dean laughs, and sips at his hot chocolate, staring at the fire. It's rare to see him so subdued, but he's been quieter lately, more thoughtful, and Seth isn't entirely sure why. It might be that he's getting all of his crazy out in the ring, leaving him more tranquil in his down time, it's hard to tell, but it's not something Seth's complaining about, he likes _tranquil_ Dean just as much as frenetic manic Dean.

"I dunno... I like the beard." Seth finishes his chocolate, and moves closer, tugging on the fake beard lightly. "Like what's under it better though." He pulls the beard down, and kisses Dean slowly, taking his time to chase the taste of hot chocolate in Dean's mouth.

"Yeah... It's scratchy." Dean laughs, and pulls the beard off, knocking his hat off in the process. "I like the hat though. I think it looks fucking awesome." He replaces the hat on his head, shaking it making the little bell ring merrily.

"Yeah, it's great." Seth agrees absently, moving to straddle Dean's thighs, kissing him again. "I should get one."

"You'd make a fine Mrs Claus." Dean grins, and kisses him again, his hands groping at Seth's ass. "Old married couple sex I'm sure is awesome... Wanna try it out?" He laughs, and Seth chuckles at him, pulling his sweater over his head, and unbuttoning the Santa costume's jacket, shoving it down Dean's arms, trapping them in a tangle of fabric. He kisses Dean again, holding back a laugh as the little jingle bell chimes frantically as Dean tries to free himself from costume jacket. Seth stands, and strips, settling down on the rug wearing nothing but an overly amused smirk, watching Dean curse, and swear his way out of the rest of his clothing. "We're heading for a divorce, Mrs Claus." Dean mutters, all but pouncing on Seth, kissing him, and the nipping down his neck.

"_Hey_ no marks, you know what they're like." Seth flicks one of Dean's ears, getting a growl and a sharp little bite to one of his nipples. "Lie down for me, huh?" Seth murmurs, carding his fingers through Dean's hair, trying, and failing, to bring order to the messy mane.

"Why?" Dean does lie back though, his hat flopping off once more, staring at Seth as he sits beside him. The soft orange flames pick out the honeyed tones of the mess of hair on Dean's head, make the warm tan of his skin look more golden, fire light is the best way to view this ridiculous man, Seth decides in that moment. "You're staring, Seth... Quit fucking staring, it's creeping me the fuck out." The beauty of the way Dean looks is far too often spoiled by the crude words that spew from his mouth though, and whilst it's a pity, Dean's mouth is one of his most interesting features.

"Sorry..." Seth cups his cheek, and kisses him softly. "I was just considering my options, beautiful."

"Yeah, I'm fucking gorgeous. C'mon, baby... Santa's got a present for you." Dean grabs the hat from his costume once more, and stuffs it on his head, then nods down at his cock. "A nice thick candy cane for you to suck on." Seth rolls his eyes, and leans over, taking Dean's cock in his mouth. Dean's hips buck up, and Seth pulls back, a little scowl on his face.

"Down." Seth snaps, and Dean smirks at him, getting a sharp little glare for his amusement. Seth lowers his head once more, and licks along the underside of Dean's cock, dabbing at the head with his tongue, before sucking on it lightly. He treats Dean's cock like the candy cane Dean had referred to it as, licking and suckling on it, nibbling at the soft skin.

"C'mon." Dean almost whines, and Seth smirks at him, sitting back up, ignoring the hands that make a scrabbling play for his hair.

"Nope." The smirk stays on Seth's face as he takes the little bottle of lube from its hiding place in the folds of the blanket, and slicks two of his fingers, then he sits up on the couch, sliding one into himself. Dean watches him _hungrily_, his hand stroking his cock, watching Seth prep himself, impatience in his eyes.

"You gonna ride me?" Dean's voice is rough and heavy with anticipation, his eyes fixated on where Seth's fingers are buried in his body.

"Like a fucking sleigh." Seth laughs, flicking at the jingle bell on the hat, and Dean grimaces at the _seasonal _response, the grimace melting from his face as Seth slides down his cock slowly. He moves leisurely, Dean's hands on his hips, not guiding or even offering any help, just resting there, stroking his skin. "Lend me a hand?" Seth pants, the movement of his hips is rubbing Dean's cock over his prostate occasionally, but it's not enough for his cock to be as fully invested in the ride as Seth would like it.

"I dunno... Kinda seems like the sort of thing that only bad little boys would do... Don't you wanna be on Santa's nice list?" Dean laughs, taking a hold of Seth's cock, stroking him slowly, matching the steady, deliberate pace of his hips. It's a pleasant change from the more frantic moments they've had in hotel and locker rooms up and down the country, but that had been the point of the whole exercise. This festive fireside seduction had been to show Dean that it didn't always have to be hard and fast, didn't always have to be hushed and hurried for fear of being caught. In this quiet little room, beside this crackling fire, it can be slow, it can be gentle, it can be the sort of side to their relationship they've never had time to explore.

"I guess, but I can live with being on the naughty list if it gets your hand on my cock." Seth's laugh melts into a wanton moan as Dean's hand speeds up around his cock.

"You do well enough, and I'll put in a good word with Santa." Dean laughs, his hips rising to meet Seth's. A comfortable silence, punctuated solely by the fire, the sound of their bodies moving, and the occasional gasping moan falls over them, carrying them both to their orgasm. The air between them as they lay tangled on the rug in front of the fire is warm, like the blanket Seth can feel against his calf. Dean's fingers are absently running up and down his back, and it's possibly the nicest, _stillest_ moment Seth's ever experienced with him. Sex usually ends with them both getting ready for bed, and sleeping separately, but as he lies absently staring at Dean's face, and not getting called on it, listening to the fire, and the quiet sound of snow batting at the window, Seth doesn't think he'd mind many more nights like this one. Dean eventually untangles himself from Seth, and sits up, grabbing the blanket, his hat falling from his head, landing by Seth with a sad little tinkle.

"Hey, c'mere." Dean's wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, and is holding it open, a clear indication to Seth to come and be held by him.

"Merry Christmas." Seth mutters absently, snuggling up to Dean, a smile stretching his lips as Dean's arms and the blanket wrap around him.

"This what you were expecting?" Dean laughs, and his fingers start running through Seth's hair, gently teasing out the tangles in it. "You wanted some cuddlin' by the fire, huh?" Dean chuckles, and Seth snorts, it was _exactly_ what he wanted, and even if he wasn't supposed to be playing it in the first place, Dean definitely managed the role of Santa very well.

"Whole thing was _exactly_ what I wanted." Seth turns to Dean with a grin. He grabs the Santa hat up from the floor, plonks it on Dean's head, and flicks the little jingle bell, smiling at the happy little sound it makes. They sit snuggled in silence a while longer, a comfortable lethargy falling over Seth. It takes some time, but he's no surprised when Dean's hand starts running down his spine, brushing over the swell of his ass. He thinks he might be up for round two. "So, Santa, did I make the nice list then?" Dean laughs at him, and places a soft kiss to Seth's temple, his gaze back on the fire, his hand squeezing Seth's ass.

"I dunno... I'd say naughty, _but_ nice."

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><p><em>Thank you to my dear <strong>littleone 1389, AshJovillette, Brokenspell77, veomuertos,<strong>__** and Rebellecherry **for the reviews. :3_

_Up eighth we have **Jingle Bell Rock**. I kind of combined the two _**littleone1389**, I hope it was okay. :3__

_Not much is set in stone for these fics - so if you'd like to fire me a song and pairing combo in a PM, I'll have a listen and see what I can come up with._

**_You can't give me an apple _****_for Christmas _****_like my students are already doing , but you can give me a review! ;)_**


	9. Carol of the Bells

_Warnings: Slash __(Ambrose/Punk),__ Mild Profanity, AU._

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><p>Its cold, painfully cold, and Dean wants to be somewhere warm, even if it's just by a burning oil drum, but there's nothing, no warmth to be found out there. He's been walking for hours, trying to keep warm, but it's futile. It doesn't matter how much he keeps shuffling from place to place, there's no hiding from the sharp wind. There's no hiding from the cold. He should just go back to his spot, he should just go back <em>home<em>, at least as home as a homeless man can get, but he doesn't want to go back empty handed. He'd left in search of something for his lover to eat, and he will bring something back for him. He's been looking pale and weak all winter. His skin taking on an almost green tinge the longer winter lasts. He's worried, he can't lose him, can't bear the thought of going on without the grouchy, miserable, beautiful bastard. They might fight, they might argue so loud that the cops have been called to move them on, but Dean loves him more than life itself. If that bastard dies, he's got no idea what he'll do. The search seems futile though, none of the usual spots have anything left, and Dean's getting colder and colder. He can't keep going forward, not without risking becoming a popsicle, so he has no choice but to go back.

"Hey." He calls into the little lean-to shack, watching the figure curled up in the warmest corner raise his head slightly.

"Hi." He croaks, and Dean sighs softly, clambering into the frail structure, and pulling his lover closer. "No luck?" He asks quietly, and Dean shakes his head. His lover nods, and nuzzles against Dean, his well-wrapped arms around Dean's waist. "It'll be okay, we'll go look in the morning." He murmurs, and Dean sighs, holding the thin body of his lover close.

"I'm sorry." Dean mutters, and there's a laugh from the man in his arms.

"Yeah... Me too." He whispers, and pulls back from Dean. He looks awful, the bags under his eyes have bags, his hair is a limp, sweaty mess. As Dean's hand brushes his cheek, his heart is aching. He's going to watch the man die, he's going to lose him, and there's nothing he can do about it. "I'm sorry I'm sick, I'm sorry... Sorry about a whole bunch of things." He whispers, and Dean holds him tighter, wincing when he moans in pain.

"Punk..." Dean sighs, and the man in his arms, makes a softly pained noise. "C'mon... We need to go back." Dean stands, pulling Punk up with him. He sways on his feet, and Dean pulls him closer.

"They told me it was nothing... This is probably a cold or something. It'll pass... I'll be fine." Punk mutters, and Dean frowns. He doesn't believe him, if he doesn't get another doctor to look at him, a doctor that cares, Punk's going to die.

"Humour me." Dean says softly, and smiles slightly. "Besides, the free clinic is warmer, and we might get a cup of coffee out of it." Punk nods meekly, and leans over, pressing a kiss to Dean's scruff covered cheek.

"I'll be fine, Dean, but if it makes you feel better." He lets Dean hold him close the whole way to the clinic. It's possibly stupid making their relationship as obvious as they do. There's plenty of assholes who are willing to try and kick the shit out of the _fags_, but Dean loves a fight, almost as much as Punk does. He never seems more alive than when he's beating the shit out of someone, but he's not had the energy for even that lately.

The woman behind the counter in the clinic looks surprised to see them, and Dean nods to her.

"There a doctor in?" He asks, on the way over Punk had gotten paler, his skin slightly damp with sweat, more than once they'd had to stop to let him dry heave on the sidewalk. He's been getting sicker and sicker, and Dean's been getting more and more worried. Dying isn't an option, not for Punk, Dean won't let him go that easily.

"Yeah, he is. Wait." The woman points to the empty chairs, the security guard looks over at them suspiciously, and Dean wraps a protective, and honestly a little possessive, arm around Punk's shoulders, feeling him tremble.

"You okay?" Dean whispers into Punk's ear, he gets a soft little nod, but Dean knows that Punk would claim to be alright even if he'd been shot and was bleeding out on the street. "Punk..."

"I'm fine, alls the doctor's gonna do is give me more antibiotics, and tell me to eat more, it's alls he's done the last three times we've wasted these people's time." He hisses, his face screwed up in pain.

"Does it hurt still?" There's a lump on Punk's back that's been getting bigger and bigger, the doctor that's seen it said it was nothing to worry about, and it's not like they have options on a second opinion, but Dean doesn't believe it's nothing. It's been getting more and more painful, swelling more, filling with more pus, and Punk's been getting sicker the larger it gets. It's the cause of this illness, Dean's sure of it.

"Okay, through you come." A doctor appears at the door of the little office, and Dean stares at him. He's not the usual one that's there, but maybe that's because it's Christmas, the usual doctor is probably in his nice warm house, eating, drinking and being merry. "I'm Doctor Colton..." The doctor trails off, staring at Punk. Punk fidgets beneath that gaze, and looking to Dean for help. "What's the problem?" The doctor seems to snap out of his daze, and Punk starts pulling his pants down, showing the lump on his back to the doctor.

"There's this lump... I've been kind of... Sick, and it's getting bigger, I'm sure it's nothing, and alls that's wrong is the cold, but..." The doctor steps closer, his fingers brushing over Punk's skin carefully, as he stares at Punk's back, then swears softly. Dean looks over at him, and Punk glances over his shoulder.

"How long have you had this?" He mutters, and Punk sighs. He's clearly uncomfortable, and Deans steps closer, offering him his hand.

"October... I've had antibiotics for it." Punk mutters, and the doctor tsks softly.

"It's a MRSA infection, most antibiotics won't do shit for it." The doctor glances up at Dean, and frowns, before grabbing an alcohol swab and wiping over the ugly lump on Punk's back. "I'm gonna lance it, then give you the right medicine. This is going to hurt... I'm sorry." Something impossibly sad flits over the doctor's face, and he presses his scalpel against the lump. "I'm so sorry." He whispers softly. The first incision into the lump has Punk wincing, and grabbing Dean's hand tightly. A jet of ugly pus almost explodes out of the cut, and Dean stares. The doctor swipes at the lump, and sighs. "This really will hurt." He warns solemnly, and Dean squeezes Punk's hand gently, his other hand stroking over Punk's lank hair.

"It'll be okay." He promises softly, and then the doctor starts squeezing the lump, a flood of thick pus spewing from the incision. Punk's fingers tighten around Dean's hand, and all Dean can do is stroke Punk's hair and face, trying to offer him comfort. Eventually there's no more pus to be had from the wound, and Punk finally eases up on his grip. Dean presses a kiss to his sweating forehead. The doctor smiles slightly at Dean, and dresses Punk's back. His hands moving quickly, almost reverently, and Dean isn't too sure what to make of it all. He goes and starts writing a prescription.

"You'll need to keep this as clean as possible. Try and find a shelter to stay in for a while." He frowns, looking like he wants to say something else, and Dean nods vaguely. There's no shelters that aren't full at this time of year. They've never even managed to catch a soup kitchen with food left lately. "You had this for three months?" The doctor looks up from his pad, he'd been writing the prescription for Punk's new medicine out on. Dean can only hope that the clinic will provide it for free like the last lot, they've no money, and if they did, it'd go on food. Punk nods at the doctor, as he sorts his clothes. "You could have died... You should be dead, you're a lucky man." The doctor is trying to sound nonchalant, and Dean thinks he's failing miserably. There's something going on that Dean doesn't know about, and by the look of Punk, he doesn't either. The doctor holds the slip of paper out to Dean, he's staring at Punk once more, there's recognition in his eyes, but Dean knows that Punk won't know this man. "What happened to you, Phil?" The doctor says suddenly, and Punk waves Dean out of the room, a hard little look on his face. Dean's only heard Punk mention his name was Phil once, that was all Punk could give him; there's a gaping wound of a hole in Punk's memories that he can't heal.

"Dean... Get my meds, _please_." Punk says softly, and Dean stares between the two of them, at the odd look on the doctor's face, and the uncomfortably resigned one on Punk's.

When Punk shuffles out of the office, the doctor leans on the doorframe, staring at Punk, something odd in his eyes, and a resigned _miserable_ look on his face.

"What was it?" Dean asks, wrapping an arm around Punk's narrow shoulders. Punk shakes his head, and is silent until they're out of the clinic.

"He knew me... Knew me before the accident." Punk rubs his face, and sighs. "He knows alls about me. He could tell me everything, Dean, _everything_." Punk's wearing an odd expression, and Dean can't say he blames him. The accident robbed Punk of the majority of his life; from what Dean's heard, he'd had to relearn how to do basically everything, from talking to taking a shit in the toilet. Dean had met Punk once he'd been out of the hospital for a good long while. He could function in society well enough, but if he'd had any skills before the accident, he'd forgotten them. The job he'd had before it wasn't viable, and Punk had panicked, pushed everyone away, ending up alone on the streets. Alone until the day he'd met Dean, a street kid through and through. It hadn't been love at first sight, but it'd been something if nothing else. There was something in the undirected fire in Punk's eyes that Dean had been drawn to, and like a moth at a flame, Dean's been enthralled ever since.

"Did he _want_ anything?" Dean squeezes Punk's shoulders gently, and Punk shakes his head. Dean sighs, knowing there's more to this.

"He... He gave me money, insisted I take it, get somewhere to stay for a few days to give me a chance to heal." Punk's hand is in his pocket, and he leads Dean over to a doorway, showing him the roll of hundreds in his pocket.

"_Fuck..._" Dean breathes, there's a lot of money in Punk's hand, and again Jon wonders just who and what Punk had been before the accident, who and what that doctor had been to him.

"If we get somewhere cheap, a motel or something, it'll last a while, right?" Punk smiles slightly, and Dean nods. That much money could set them up for a good few weeks, and having an address makes it easier to find a job. People like being able to contact you somehow, and Dean's pretty sure if he cleans up a little he'll at least be able to get some work in a dive bar.

"Yeah... I know just the place." Dean presses a kiss to the scar on Punk's forehead, along with his forgotten memories; it was a gift from his accident. He thinks that eventually Punk's going to go seek out that doctor, he knows that not knowing who he was plays on Punk's mind, and Dean can't blame him, if Dean had that hole in his mind, he'd want to fill it too. It might be good, it might be bad when Punk does question that doctor, but for now they have money, they have hope, and at Christmas that's about all you can ask for.

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><p><em>Thank you to my dear <strong>ChelleLew, littleone1389, and AshJovillette<strong> for the reviews. :3_

_Up ninth we have **Carol of the Bells**. This is one of my favourite songs, not just Christmas songs, but actual songs, it's a gorgeously bleak sounding song despite being so happy lyrically, and I love it so. _

_Not much is set in stone for these fics - so if you'd like to fire me a song and pairing combo in a PM, I'll have a listen and see what I can come up with._

**_You can't give me an apple _****_for Christmas _****_like my students are already doing , but you can give me a review! ;)_**


	10. White Christmas

_Warnings: Slash __(Colt/Punk),__ Profanity, Smut, Heavily AU - Mentions of WWII._

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><p>"Brooks!" The sound of the Sergeant's voice rouses me from the half drowse that marching on not enough rations, and too much cold had left me in. We've been <em>liberating<em> Europe for a while now, and whilst sometimes it's okay, other times it's just the deathly drudgery of dealing with the half-mad remnants of the Third Reich. Then there are times like this. We'd all heard of these places, the _concentration camps_, but seeing them always makes my stomach turn. Starved, abused people herded like cattle, and left to die. Sometimes there are people shot in the back of the head, their bodies in open trenches, rotting in the open, other times they're left in pens, starving, trapped and alone. Nothing they've trained us for prepared us for this, and it never gets any easier. It never stops being something I'm going to have nightmares about for the rest of my life. "_Brooks_!" The Sergeant shouts again, and I come forward, knowing we're at another one of those awful places, another _camp_.

"Sir?" I salute vaguely and the Sergeant nods at me, a half-smile on his face. I know what he's going to ask, I know what's about to happen, but I hate doing this. It'd been foolish to tell them that I could speak German, but I did, and I can, a little at least, so I'm always put in lead for when we come to these places, always forced to try and talk to the half-dead people left behind in them.

"You know the drill, Brooks... Take these three, find someone alive enough to talk to us, and get them to tell us what went on here." The Sergeant knows full well what happened here, we all do, we've seen enough of these places to know that nothing but the worst, most terrible things have happened here. We've seen piles of ash six feet high, we've seen piles of shoes, piles of clothes, piles of the possessions of people, and this is another one of those places.

"C'mon, Punk." Ambrose laughs. He and his would be brothers are always assigned to help me with these little investigations. They're a tight knit little trio referred to half-jokingly as The Shield, because that's kind of what they are, three men willing to step in front of a bullet with a faster one of their own, a shield to the rest of the platoon. The camp is quiet, no sounds at all, and there's a part of me that's convinced that alls we're going to find is more corpses, or evidence of more of those forced death marches, corpses trailing in which ever direction they went.

"Hello!" Rollins shouts, and I _almost_ want to smack him, if there were guards still here, it would have alerted them to our presence, but silence meets his call, silence that's broken by the sound of a quiet voice calling _Hello_ back. We follow that quiet little call, and find a gaggle of people in a cell. The ones who were too old, or too young, or too sick, left to die of their own volition.

"Hello?" I step forward, and choke on my words. I can never remember how to talk when faced with these skeletal faces, can never remember that the people who did this to them are as human as the people dying before me. "Sprechen sie Englisch?" My German is rudimentary at best, but I've got more than the entire platoon combined, so this is _my_ job.

"Ja, I do, a little." A voice from the back of the cell comes, and the crowd part, giving me a clear view of a too thin, too tired looking young man, who starts coughing. "You are American?" He asks me something like hope on his face, and an old man turns to him, saying something in German that's too rapid for me to follow. "Ja, ja..."

"Yes. We are Americans." I say slowly, and the man nods slightly, relief and awe colouring his features. He turns to the old man, and relates what I just said. The other people in the cell give a subdued cheer, and I smile awkwardly, stepping aside to let Reigns cut the chain on the cell door. "Are there any more people here?" The man who speaks English sighs, looking at me blankly. "Gibt es noch-"

"I know what you said." The man's voice is softly tired, and I nod, stepping aside to let The Shield into the cell to start moving people out of it. "I don't know." I nod, glancing at Ambrose.

"Yeah... We'll go take a look. You keep him talking." Ambrose smacks Rollins' shoulder, then Reign's back, and the trio start off down the corridor. The rest of the platoon file in, helping the prisoners out to the cold, then to the tents, offering them as much warmth there as they can. The Sergeant comes over to where I'm sitting with the guy who speaks English.

"So, you speak English?" The man beside me looks blankly at the Sergeant, and I have to hold back a smirk. The Sergeant's thick Boston drawl is clearly too difficult to understand.

"Sie sprechen Englisch?" I smile at the man, and he nods.

"A little, you have to talk slow and clear." He smiles back awkwardly, coughing once more.

"You are ill?" He nods in response to my question, and I glance hopefully at the Sergeant.

"I'll send the medic over. Try and find out as much as you can, Brooks." The Sergeant walks off, and I nod at him, turning back to the man beside me.

"He is in charge?" The man beside asks softly, and I nod, the Sergeant is in charge of this motley crew. He's got a tough task, but he does well enough, strict but friendly when he has to be.

"Yeah... Where are the soldiers?" I ask, staring ahead, not wanting to watch the man coughing again. I want the medic to show up, I want someone to come over with a canteen, something, _anything_ to make the awful coughing stop.

"Gone." The man says once he's stopped coughing, and a silence falls over us. "You are Brooks?" He asks me after a while, and I turn to him with a smile.

"I am. What is your name?" I'm horrible at guessing names, so I can't even begin to work out what he could be called, but I can tell it'll be Jewish. Most of the people we find in these places are Jewish, there's a few others here and there, but on the whole, it's Jews who are herded to their deaths in these places.

"My name?" The man smiles slightly, rubbing at his arm, looking mournful.

"What's that?" I nod down at the little scrawl of black on his arm, and he shakes his head, a strangely dead smile on his face.

"My name." He smiles at me sadly, and I stare at the numbers inked into his skin. I've seen these prisoner numbers before, and they never get any easier to look at. I have tattoos, I want more, but I've always thought of them as a way of expressing myself, of showing the World who I am, and it _hurts_ to see an art form I love used for such a horrific purpose.

"You are not a number." I get him firmly, and he shakes his head, trying to laugh, but coughing once more. "Where the fuck is that fucking medic? Medic!" I can't take this anymore, there's only so much misery I can take in one dose, and this is it. I can't handle this without getting to give this man something in the way of good news, which I'm hoping the medic will bring.

"I'm right here, Brooks." The Medic squats in front of the man, and frowns. "I don't like this cough much."

"Yeah, I'm guessing he doesn't either. What is it?" I snap, the man is still coughing, his hand still moving over the ugly number on his skin. "Sind sie gut? Wasser?"

"I am okay. Water would be good." The man manages between coughs, and I stand, going to fetch a canteen myself, bringing it back quickly, pausing a little ways away to watch the medic examining him. The medic comes over to me, a frown on his face.

"I'm hoping it's not TB... But, I really don't like that cough. We need to get him moved, and probably quarantined as soon as possible." The medic talks quietly, and I watch the man coughing again, his eyes dropping closed for a few seconds.

"I'll talk to him, and then take him down to you in base camp." I walk over, and the man looks up at me, a timid little smile on his face as I hand him the canteen. "You are very ill." I tell him slowly, and he nods.

"It is why they left me here." I nod, it makes sense, if it is TB then there's no way he's going to survive, may as well leave him to die with the others.

"Do you know where they went?" The man looks at me, and I open my mouth to talk again, but he interrupts me.

"No... I did not hear them." He sips from the canteen, a sad smile on his face. He looks like he's not a man given to being so unhappy, he looks like in his real life he was probably a pretty happy person, but it's hard to be happy in one of these camps, it's hard to be happy when you're dying.

"Okay... Okay." I nod and sit back down, smiling when Ambrose ambles up to me, a tense look on his face.

"They're gonna need you, Brooks." He jerks his thumb down the corridor he's just come from, and I nod, rising to my feet, glancing over that the man I'd been sitting by. "We're gonna take him down to medical, then they'll ship him to a hospital when they can." I nod, and turn to the man. He'd clearly been trying to follow the conversation, but the speed, and Ambrose's drawl had thwarted him.

"I heard hospital?" He says to me, and I nod.

"Yeah. You are sick. You need to go to hospital." The man nods slowly, and I smile at him, holding my hand out to him. "Brooks is my surname, I'm Phil." I smile again, and the man takes my hand, squeezing lightly.

"Scott Colton... When they were alive my friends called me Colt." He smiles weakly, and I gently squeeze his hand back. I know how important it can be to have human contact, warm, honest, _hopeful_ human contact, and though it's nothing more than a handshake, I hope that's what this is for Colt.

"Punk... My friends call me Punk." I smile at him, and he nods slightly, his lips forming my nickname, not yet brave, or sure, enough to actually give it a voice. "This is Ambrose. He will take you to get better." I smile at Colt, and then turn to Ambrose. "_Slowly_, and _clearly_, then he'll understand." Ambrose nods. I offer a hand down to Colt, helping him to his feet. I don't know why I did, but I couldn't help but give him a hug, a warm, reassuring embrace, letting him know that whatever he's faced in this place is over, he's safe, he's free, and we're going to help him.

"_Danke, Punk_." Colt whispers very quietly, and I close my eyes. He stinks of death and a lack of bathing, but it's the purest, most honest embrace I've ever felt in my life, it's a moment burned in my memories forevermore.

The war carries on, and I don't see Colt again, but I can't shake the memory of him. He'd been no different to far too many other people I've seen in these awful places, so many starved, dying people have crossed my path, and yet only Colt stands out to me. When I close my eyes, it's his face that looks back at me. When I raise my gun to fire at the enemy, and the fact that they're people, with lives and hopes and families comes to me, it's the look on Colt's face as he stared down at that number branded into his skin that comes to my mind, and pulling the trigger is made so much easier. When they scream, it's Colt's voice sadly telling me that hideous tattoo is his name that drowns out their pleading.

Finally, we're told the war is won, and we get to go home. I've never really considered what I was going to do with my life once I got back home. I'd always expected to die in Europe, I'd thought the only way I was getting back to the United States was in a box, but I'm very much alive when they discharge me, and pin a medal, I don't think I deserve, to my chest.

I go back home to Chicago, and I stall. I've no idea what I want to do, no idea what I can do, no idea how to carry on with my life. Everyone around me seems so driven, so focussed, wanting to move on, wanting to forget. I guess it's easy for them; they don't close their eyes and see death. They can lie in a quiet, dark room at night, and not hear phantoms screaming and begging in German, or broken English. I can't. My mind won't let me escape the horrors I've seen, my soul won't let me forget the brutality I witnessed, won't let me forget the brutality I inflicted. Victory in a war is hollow for those who fought for it. Victory doesn't feel much like victory when you're a soldier. People tell me that I'm not a soldier anymore, but the stains in my mind tell me that there's nothing I can do about the lives I took, there's nothing I can do about the lives I didn't save by my inaction, or my action. I was, and I think I will forever be, a soldier.

In the end, I learn how to tattoo. I cover myself in bright, beautiful pictures, but in my mind, I can see a too thin arm, and an ugly, crude number etched into the pallid and dirty skin. It doesn't matter how good I get, it doesn't matter what I'm tattooing into someone's skin, alls I can see are those ugly numbers.

"You're a hard man to find, Brooks." It's rare that anyone addresses me as Brooks; it's even rarer that someone with German accented English comes to my store. I glance up from the sketch I was working on, and stare. Time has been good to him, he looks healthy, filled out, _human_.

"Colt?" I stare, and he laughs, coming closer to me. I stand numbly, and almost collapse into the hug he gives me.

"No one calls me that anymore." His voice is soft in my ear, and I can't believe he's here, that he's alive. In my mind, I'd killed him. In my mind, he was a spectre along for the ride, but he's not dead, he's flesh and living blood, standing in my store, whole and healthy, alive and well.

"I'm an _old_ friend." I smile at him once he lets me go, a wry smile on his face.

"You are." He takes a seat on one of chairs in my store, and looks at me. I've never been looked at like this before, assessing, appraising. "You look _different_... Tired." He frowns, and I nod. I am tired. It's strange that I'm less able to sleep safe in my bed than I was on a battlefield where death lurked around every corner.

"Civilian life isn't easy to adjust to." I smile awkwardly at him, and sit back down behind my desk, unable to keep from staring at him. I can't believe he's here. I can't believe he's alive. I can't believe he'd tracked me down, and is sitting staring straight back at me.

"When I went to the hospital, I asked about you... Every week, I asked if you were okay. My English got better because of you." He smiles at me, and I stare at him. I don't know what to say. He had a thousand other more important things to ask about, thousand more reasons to practice English than asking about me.

"Why?" I think it's a petty question, but the look on Colt's face tells me he'd been expecting it. He smiles at me kindly, and shifts in his chair, a _hint_ of discomfort crossing his face briefly.

"Why... You were the first person to be _nice_ to me in a long time." He smiles at me again, and then turns to look at the pictures covering the walls of my little store. "For the longest time, for a time that felt like eternity, I was slaving in the camp. My family and I had been separated, they were sent to Poland... To Birkenau." He trails off, and I stare at him. Birkenau, Auschwitz, they went to die, and Colt knew that, the look on his face tells me he knew that.

"I'm s-"

"Don't tell me you're sorry. I already know you are. I _knew _you would be." Colt turns to me with a smile. "You're a good person... I could see it in your eyes. It's why I wanted to know you were okay." He stands, coming closer to the counter, his eyes locked with mine, and I rise to my feet, not sure what to do with myself. "I needed to know that someone as good as you could survive that _war_." His hand hovers near my cheek, and I stare at him, frozen to the spot. I'd like to lean into his palm, I'd like to nuzzle against his skin, if only to confirm that he's real, that this isn't my imagine playing tricks on me again. I might not have been visited by apparitions of Colt before, but more times than I can count, I've fought battles in empty spaces, had conversations with ghosts of brothers-in-arms, I have no doubts that my mind would summon Colt up to torture me.

"I don't know that I did." My voice is tiny, so small it's almost as though I didn't speak the words aloud. Colt's hand rests on the back of my neck, drawing me forward, his forehead resting against mine.

"Your eyes... They're still good. You're still here." He tells me, his voice low and soft. I close my eyes, and for the longest time we exist, nothing but the press of his forehead against mine, his hand on my neck, his breath on my face. Outside of this moment, there is a whole World, but for me, for then, there was nothing but stillness, nothing but quiet, nothing but the warmth of a life I _knew_ I'd saved. When Colt steps away from me, the spectres creep back into my mind, but they're old friends now, an almost welcome heavy weight on my soul.

"So..." I sit back down heavily, my breathing feels fast, my heart is pounding, my head light, but I'm not sure why. "So, what are you doing these days?" Colt goes back to his seat, and I'm _almost_ grateful for the distance between us. He'd been too close, and the things I'd wanted him to do to me then were neither right nor proper.

"I'm working... A German teacher in a High School." He smiles, and I nod, surprised that people would want their kids learning German, surprised that Colt would want to be reminded, but really I can't comment because I don't know. I can't say if I was him I'd disown the country that murdered my family, and almost killed me, because it's never happened to me, it's unlikely to _ever_ happen to me.

"That's... _Good_?" It sounds more like a question than I'd wanted it to, but I couldn't help it, it is a question, and I need an answer for it. I need to know that he's okay, that he's happy, that he isn't lost and stalling like me.

"It's better." Colt smiles, and I nod, not really sure what to do now. "I would always ask if you were alive." He looks at me, not just looking at me, but _seeing _me, and I feel desperately uncomfortable under his gaze. "I couldn't take the thought of you being dead, but I never dared to hope you'd get to keep your goodness." He smiles, fidgeting in his seat, his fingers twitching.

"Uh... You wanna grab a coffee?" I stand, and he smiles at me again, rising to his feet. "There's a place nearby, it's cheap... The coffee isn't great, but it's... It's _cheap_, and I know teachers don't make a lot." I laugh, feeling like an idiot.

"I imagine you don't make too much either." He waves around my little store, and I shake my head. I make barely enough to stay open, but I've no idea what else to do. Normal jobs seem so beyond me, no one seems willing to hire me, so this is the only thing I can do. It's not a bad job, the people who come through my doors are interesting, or charming enough, everyone has a story, and as I tattoo them, I get to forget mine in listening to them talk.

He comes over for a few more coffees after that first time. We talk, and I find I like him a lot more than I'd expected. He tells me a few things about his life in Germany before the war, a few stories about the family he lost to the Nazis, a few stories that made me laugh, and mourn them for him. They sounded like good people caught in a horrible situation. Every time we drink cheap coffee together I feel more like I'm becoming his friend, and it puts the spectres of my mind at rest. The longer I spend with him, the more I feel like a real person, and not a collection of horrors held in a person-shaped shell. The first time he asks me out to dinner, I'm surprised, I don't quite know what to say, but I agree easily enough. Its dinner between friends, I know, but Colt's eyes have never lost that _hint_ of awe. When he looks at me, I feel like so much more than a lost soldier, I feel like a person, I feel whole, I feel like I have some value in a World that places none in me. I know I'm worthless to most people, but when Colt looks at me, I feel precious. I don't feel like his friend, and I know that's dangerous. We've both faced so many dangers in our lives, and I don't want to bring danger back into Colt's life, not after I helped take him from somewhere so atrocious. We eat out a few more times, never anywhere expensive, never anywhere too classy, and it grows comfortable, it grows to be something I can handle, until one night it changes.

"You can come in." Colt smiles as he speaks, and holds the door to his little apartment open. Inside there's not much, a couch, a radio, and papers scattered all over the table. I hear the soft click of the door closing, and Colt's warmth near my back. I turn to him, realising we're too close but not doing anything about it. "It's not much, but its home." His smile softens as he looks at me, his hand reaching out to hover near my cheek. Unlike the time in my store, this time I can't stop the urge to rest my cheek against his hand. This time his fingers mould to the curve of my face, his thumb stroking under my eye. "Punk?" His voice is as heavy as his gaze, and I feel almost transfixed, like when I'd be on the battlefield with my gun raised, my eye looking down the sights, lining up a shot, and instinct kicked in, blocking out everything else. I lean forward, and brush my lips over his, then pull back, panicked and fearful, barging past him, and out of his apartment.

I expect him to ignore me from that moment on. That night I didn't sleep, the sounds of gunfire in my ears, and Colt sitting, coughing in the concentration camp behind my eyelids. I expected the next few nights to the same, but the next morning my mind is changed. Colt's standing outside of my store, two cups of takeaway coffee in his hands, and a tense look on his face.

"Can I come in?" He pitches his voice kindly, like he was expecting me to tell him to leave, but instead I nod, and open the door, letting him into the store. "Last night, Punk..." He sighs, scrubbing at his face with his hand.

"Look, I'm sorry... I got caught up in the moment, and I-"

"No." He steps closer to me, his hand on my face again. "No, don't apologise. I've wanted to kiss you for so long, since the first day I came here." He leans forward, and I shrink back a little, he smiles at me though, resting his forehead against mine.

"That's a long time." I mutter, stepping away from him, and fussing with some random papers on the counter. "I'm sure it wasn't worth the wait." My back is turned to him, but I can hear moving, can feel him standing closer to me, can feel his warmth through our clothes.

"I'd have waited twice as long for half as much." He stands closer still, almost pinning me to the counter, there's nowhere for me to go, and as his lips brush over the nape of my neck, there's nowhere else I want to be.

"Colt, _please_." I mutter, and he steps away from me, letting me move away from the counter. "I shouldn't have done that, you _know_ I shouldn't have... It's not-"

"Why did you kiss me?" He hands me a cup of coffee, and I blow on it, staring at the murky liquid. "If you regret it, if it's something you want to take back why did you kiss me in the first place?"

"Because I wanted to... Because I _still_ want to... Because." I sigh, and look up, meeting Colt's eyes. He never just _looks_ at me, he always _sees_ me, sees every part of me, and it almost scares me how much he does see me.

"Because." He nods, as though that were answer enough. He stays for maybe an hour; we talk of nothing, of work, our lives outside of our friendship. Colt's life is full of tales of colleagues and students, mine of bikers, and former soldiers. I don't really have a _social_ life exactly, I have my books, I have my tattoos, and I have my spectres. There's a part of me that would like to add Colt to the list of what I have, but I don't listen to it. I can't have him, not in the way I think I want him, I have to content myself with nightmares, novels, and bikers. Once he's finished his coffee, he comes over to me, his hand tilting my chin up, making me face him. His lips whisper over my forehead, and he steps away with a soft smile.

"We'll work up to a real kiss." He promises me with a smile, and I nod, silently hoping for that to be true.

We do work up to a real kiss eventually. A kiss that even thinking of makes my breath quicken. One kiss turns to several, even manages to progress to laying on Colt's couch, listening to the radio, and kissing each other, our hands growing bolder every time.

More times passes, and our boldness reaches the next stage. Colt brings up the subject of sex carefully, as though he genuinely wouldn't mind if I was never ready for it, but I agree, I want to know what it's like to be claimed by him. It's only when the night we decided on comes that I panic, my mind filling with all kinds of fears, both real and imagined.

"I... I'm not sure about this." I whisper, and Colt smiles at me, his hand on my cheek. We settled on Christmas Eve for this, the sound of soft festive music in the background, and snow against the window pane.

"We'll take it slow... Just like kissing. Or we can stop, it's your choice." His voice is soothing, like he was talking to a frightened animal, and in some ways he really is. I'm scared of what will happen, I'm scared of what this will feel like, I'm scared that he'll decide to walk away from me once he's had me. I'd been scared when he'd kissed me properly for the first time, and now I'm _petrified_.

"No... I'm just." I sigh, and he smile at me, stroking my hair.

"If it hurts, if you don't like it, we'll stop." He kisses me, my hands creeping up to cup his face, one of his wrapping around my waist, the other cradling the back of my head. "I won't force you, Punk. If you don't want this tell me." His lips brush my own as he talks, and I can feel a shiver working its way through me.

"I want it, I'm sure. I want you... I'm just..." I try to glance away, but Colt's hand in my hair keeps me from turning my head. "I'm nervous. It's _wrong_." I mutter, it's been playing on my mind so much, every sermon I can remember from being forced to Church on Sundays as a child told me that this was a sin. Whilst God died in Europe for me, there's a lot of people who still believe, there's a society that thinks what we're doing now is damning our eternal souls.

"Punk?" Colt tries to step away, but I cling to him, not wanting him to let me go. When he holds me, the spectres are silent, when I'm in his arms my mind is free, my soul feels light and clean. If that's wrong, then there's nothing I can do about it, because I crave being clean, I crave being free. I kiss Colt, and he moans into the kiss. I rarely initiate kisses between us, I want to but I never have enough courage, but tonight I feel bold, I feel like I can muster the courage to take what I want, and what I want is Colt inside me. He guides me back towards the bed, my knees brushing the edge of the mattress. "Strip?" He asks, pulling his sweater off, then starting on unbuttoning his shirt. I pull my shirt off without undoing the buttons, the undershirt follows quickly, and I sit back, staring at Colt, ignoring the little smudge of black on his arm. I can't bring myself to think about that tattoo, not right now.

"Do you have something?" I ask him, and he leans over me, his chest pressing against mine, the feeling of his skin against mine is utterly perfect, but my mind is thinking of trying to get something into to my ass. Women get wet, men don't, and a cock isn't going into my asshole without something to make it slick. Colt nods, and from his pocket pulls a little bottle of something, setting it down beside me. "Okay." I gently push at his shoulders, and wriggle out of the last of my clothes, watching Colt slick two of his fingers. The first finger that brushes over my asshole has me tensing up, and Colt smiling wryly at me. He shushes me softly, stroking over my hole again. I can't help but think how _dirty_ this is, how _wrong_ it should feel, but it feels good, far too good. His touch ignites something in me that feels wanton, that feels like it shouldn't exist in a man, in a soldier, but it does, and Colt's fanning the flames of this feeling to the point of them feeling like they might consume me.

"You're so small." He whispers in my ear, his voice sweet and thick, like molasses. "So small, so tight... So soft." He kisses my temple, his fingers still brushing over my hole lightly. One finger presses against my asshole, and I whine. "Shh... Shh..." He tells me gently, and I turn from him. I can feel a burning on my cheeks, and I know I must look ridiculous. "Look at me... _Please_ look at me." He whispers, and I turn to him, meeting his eyes. "Your eyes... Every night I think of them, I see them staring at me, and I think of how _good_ you are. When I was in the hospital, as I got better, as I got stronger, I know how I'd taint your goodness. In my mind, I'd taint your purity so much, I still do. I've wanted you from the second I was strong enough to want someone again, Punk. You've no idea what you do to me." He smiles down at me, and I lie there staring at him, not really taking in what he's saying. I'm just lying on my back, my legs spread, staring at his eyes. The face that surrounds them is fuller, the body they're part of isn't starved and dying, but they're still the same, _still_ slightly awed as they watch me. "I think of you so much... Do you think of me? Tell me you do, _please_... Tell me it's not just me." His finger presses against my hole again, and this time it slips inside. The initial penetration is so strange, the feeling of his slicked finger inside of me, not moving, not going deeper, just _inside _me isn't something I can explain.

"Always... I'm always thinking of you." I whisper, my eyes ache to close, to give myself some space to adjust to the feeling of his finger in me, but I can't bring myself to break eye contact. "Every tattoo I do... I think of those numbers on your arm." My voice is tiny, and Colt slides his finger deeper into me, dragging a keening moan from me. "Every tattoo I want to be beautiful, I want it to be perfect, but alls I can see are those numbers."

"I'm sorry." He whispers softly, and I shake my head, staring up at him, I can feel a smile on my lips, and he looks confused.

"Don't be sorry... It's just a thing... I want to make it better for you. It's like every piece I do, in my mind it's to make those number go away, but I _know_ they're still there..." Colt slides a second finger into me, and I have to close my eyes, my breathing speeding up. I don't know if it _hurts_ but it is intense. He stretches my body slowly, reapplying the slick substance from the bottle often, opening me up for him, and when he finally enters me, I have to tell him to stop. I need time to get used to this, I need time to understand how it feels to be filled with his cock. He braces himself over me, and stares down at me.

"You okay?" He asks me softly, and I don't know how to answer that, I don't think okay covers how I feel. I'm hot and full, my body is filled with a fire that I think should burn, but it only soothes me, scorches the well of frigid ice in my heart, melting the icy bonds I've forged to keep everything I've experience in check. I can feel tears trickling down the sides of my face, running into my hair, and Colt stare at me. "This hurts?" He sounds horrified, and I shake my head, clinging to him.

"No... _No_." I pull him down to me, forcing him to lie on top of me, his weight anchoring me in the moment. "It's just... It's _everything_." I whisper, and he nods against the side of my neck.

"It's okay, I'm here, I've got you." He tells me softly. I can feel him inside me, all around me, and I feel _safe_, for so long I've not felt this way, I'm not sure I ever have felt like this, like nothing could get me, _nothing_ could hurt me. It's exactly what I've been missing my whole life, and I never knew.

"I'm okay." I press my head back against the pillow, meeting his eyes. "You can move, I'm okay now." My tears have passed, and I feel freer for having shed them. He moves slowly, his hands slipping under my shoulders, pulling me tighter to him. His lips moving over my neck. He moves slowly inside me, pausing often, letting me adapt, adjust, get used to, and _enjoy_ being filled with him. Every so often some shivery burn of pleasure runs through me, something that makes my quickening breath catch, and my body ache for more of it. I don't know what it is, but it's good, and when he changes the angle of his movements that pleasure gets stronger, and I can't keep from moaning, loud and deep. "Again, do that again." I gasp, and he kisses me, his thrusts speeding up, that pleasure burning through me. My cock is hard, weeping between us, and I can feel his thrusts beginning to falter, he's getting close, and I want, I _need_ to be there with him. I take a hand from around his shoulders, and work it between us, taking a hold of my cock, stroking it in time with his thrusts, my moans, hoarse and low, his breath hot and heavy by my ear. "Gonna come." I manage to grind out, my ability to talk almost lost to him. Colt doesn't say anything in response, just speeds up slightly, his movements making shivering pleasure course through me, and I come. My mind shattering at the feeling of my release tearing through me. As I gather myself, I can feel the first pulse of his cum inside me, warm and liquid coating the inside of my body, his hips stuttering against my ass. Colt gathers me close to him once he's pulled out of me, his arms around my waist, holding me tightly against his chest. I lie listening to his heart beating, feeling his lips pressing a kiss to my hair.

"Thank you." He says softly, and I shake my head. I don't want to be thanked for this, I don't want to be thanked for something I'm so grateful for.

"Go to sleep." I mumble, there's nothing else to do, nothing else to say tonight. Tomorrow we'll deal with this but for now, it's time to sleep. The consequences of this we can face tomorrow, I'm too tired to face them right now.

It's early, the first pale rays of dawn battering against my eyelids, and there's a well of cold in bed beside me. I sit up, and hold back a sigh. Colt's sitting on the edge of the bed, his back turned to me.

"Hey." I plaster myself to his back, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. I know I shouldn't have, because he tenses up, his face turned from me, staring at the ugly tattoo on his skin, the tattoo that made him less than human, a brand that made him worth less than cattle. Every tattoo on my skin I chose, I wanted these designs marked on my flesh, but Colt's was forced on him, and I want nothing more than to take the misery it inspires away from him. It's the last thing I can give him, the last piece of his very much-deserved freedom.

"My number." He says softly, his hand rubbing over the numbers etched into his skin. "It's strange, but I can't remember the time before I had this here." He laughs, and I hate that sound, _hate_ it more than I thought it possible to hate a laugh, but it's easy to hate it, because it's not a happy sound, it's a bleak resigned, _miserable_ one. Laughs like that should be relegated to nightmares and bad dreams; they should _never_ come from Colt, _never_.

"I can get rid of it, cover it up somehow. Today if you want, think of it as a Christmas, uh _Hanukkah_ present." I tell him softly, my lips against his skin, and he laughs, a _real_ laugh, a laugh he should only ever laugh with. He turns to me, his hand cups my cheek and he kisses me. As we kiss, I move to straddle his lap, my hands in his hair, arching into his hands as they skim down my back to rest on my waist, his fingers stroking my skin softly. When he breaks the kiss, his hands move to cradle my face, his fingers running through my hair lightly. There's an impossibly soft smile on his face, and I stare at him. I don't know what that smile means, but it's making my hear pound like I've run a marathon. "_What_?" I whisper, and his fingers stoke over my face gently.

"All I ever wanted was for you to be alive, I never thought that the good in you would survive too, but it did." He smiles at me with that same smile, and I can feel a blush creep over my cheeks.

"Colt..." I don't know what to say, there has to be something worth saying in this situation, but I don't know what.

"I told you last night that I wanted you, remember?" He asks me softly, his hands still cradling my face, and I nod, trying to read the emotions in his eyes, but failing miserably. "I want all of you, everything." He smiles again, and I'm still staring speechless at him. I think I understand, but there's so much that's wrong with this, _so_ much that'll go against us. He's survived so much already, I don't want him to be tied to me, I don't want him to suffer because of some unnatural perversion I've inspired in him.

"Colt." I try to pull away from him, but his hands don't move, he doesn't tighten his hold; his hands just stay softly against my skin. "Colt... Last night, we shouldn't have, you _know_ that... We did this together, but you have a life, a job, a career..." If we keep going with this, he'll lose all of it. It'll come out somehow, and I can't risk that happening to him. It was wonderful, these last few months have been the best of my life, but I can't keep him, I can't let him risk everything for me. "You can't throw it all away for me."

"I have an existence and a way to fund that existence. Right here, right now, I have a life. I don't care. I've been looking _so_ hard for you, trying to find you for _years_. You're what I want, Punkers." I stare at him, no one's ever called me that before, but I think I like it, and he laughs at me. "You're a good man... You've _good_ heart, and I need more, I need _your _goodness in my life."

"But, what about the consequn-"

"Tell me you don't feel something for me, tell me that you didn't enjoy last night, tell me I'm wrong, tell me that when you close your eyes you don't see me, because every time I close my eyes I see you, I see your eyes, your face... I see a soldier with the most beautiful face smiling at me, saving me, saving my life. If I have a life, it's because you gave it to me, and I want to give it to you." I close my eyes halfway through Colt's speech. Every word he said I've thought, every sentiment I've echoed. He's right, he's so painfully right, and even if we're wrong, he's so right it can't matter.

"So... You want me to do that cover-up today?" I lean forward, closing the space between our lips, we might not have said it yet, but like kissing, eventually, we'll tell each other _I love you_ properly.

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><p><em>Thank you to my dear <strong>Rebellecherry, and littleone1389 <strong>for the reviews. :3_

_Up tenth we have **White Christmas**. A request from my erstwhile writing partner **alizabetianrose**. Hope it was okay my dear! For Christmas I'd liek reviews for every single chapter of Rhizo you didn't review! ;) _

_Not much is set in stone for these fics - so if you'd like to fire me a song and pairing combo in a PM, I'll have a listen and see what I can come up with._

**_You can't give me an apple _****_for Christmas _****_like my students are already doing , but you can give me a review! ;)_**


	11. Last Christmas

_Warnings: Slash __(Raven/Punk),__ Profanity, Experimentally and Pretentiously Written._

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><p>"So, wanna go over these spots?" Genial, mild happiness, with an underlying current of apathy and disinterest.<p>

"Fuck you." Aloof, distracted, uninterested in communicating, uninteresting in conversing.

"We need to get this match put together, kid. Don't be a brat." Mild exasperation mingling with amusement.

"Fuck you." A hint, a sliver, a taste of something more beneath the aloof disinterest, a splash of old pain behind a blank gaze.

"Look, it wouldn't work." A half-hearted attempt at placating, a half-hearted attempt at making amends.

"Fuck you." Rejection for a half-hearted attempt at apologising for rejection.

"It's not like you've been dwelling on it." A laugh, amusement, trying to work through old feelings without feeling them, trying to move ahead.

"Fuck you." Sullen, bitter, caught in feeling feelings and not being able to process them.

"You've gotten over it pretty well." A laugh, a little laugh, nothing more, nothing less, just a laugh.

"_Fuck you_." A hiss, a little hiss but so much more, anger, bile, resentment, so much more than a hiss.

"It was a year ago." Calm, amused, easily brushing off the anger, washing away the bile, scoffing at the resentment. Unaffected, utterly unaffected.

"_Fuck you_." Affected, completely, and utterly affected.

"Look, c'mon, let it go, kid. It was a year ago." More calm amusement, more disdain for a fixation on something so unimportant, something that meant nothing.

"_Fuck you_." It _was_ important; the most important thing in the World, it meant everything.

"Kid... This isn't getting us anywhere." Exasperation, frustration, the desire to move on, to go forward, and get on with what's important.

"_Fuck you!_ Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!" Fury, anger, misery, the desire to be recognised, to be acknowledged, to be understood, to be important.

"I'll talk to you once you've calmed down." Resignation, realisation that what happened was more important to the other than first thought, but the complete lack of interest in resolving a situation that means nothing. The past is the past, and should be let go. Clinging solves nothing.

"Fuck you." Pain. Tiny, bitter, jagged spikes of agony deeply embedded in a soul that aches of consolation, for comfort.

"Kid." Nothing, no comfort to offer, no solace to hold out, just nothing.

"Fuck you." Soft, quiet, frail.

"..." Nothing.

"_Fuck you_." _Everything_.

"..." Silence, but a hand moves, reaching for a shoulder, creeping up to tilt his face up, meeting his eyes. Old wounds, healing slowly, old wounds filled with poison.

"Fuck you." Soft words spoken, staring, want to recoil, wanting the hand from his chin, but wanting it to stay, wanting more, wanting less, wanting nothing, wanting everything.

"I'm no good for you." Consolatory, offering as much as can be spared, barely enough pity to be shared, all of it aimed inwards.

"You could have been" Bitter hope, lingering after effects of that poison in old wounds.

"No." A laugh, a shake of a head, a smile, the sharp smile of a serpent in the grass, the sharp smile of a crocodile before it bites.

"You don't know that. I could have been good for you." Bitter, so very bitter is the sound of hope from miserable lips.

"You would have been." The other hand, soft, gentle, running over distraught features, mapping over straight brows, a sharp nose, thin, _too_ lips, to smooth through fine bleached hair.

"Then why?" Hope clung to like a life raft, desperate, so desperate to be rescued from this ocean of solitude.

"I'm no good for you." Resignation, realisation, self-actualisation, _knowledge_.

"You could have tried to be." Desire, hope, _want_ for something, for something better than reality, a delusion tinged, rose-tinted perspective.

"No." Finality. No attempt to inspire hope, no attempt to humour delusion, just reality in all it's cruel bleak harshness.

"No?" Resignation edging out hope, understanding overcoming delusion, acceptance finally dawning.

"No." Confirmation.

"Give me something." Soft, timid, a request that expects to be denied.

"What?" Trepidation, wary in the face of asking, knowing that it might be something that he can't give.

"Kiss me." A dearth of hope, but a question asked with it in mind. One last kiss, one last goodbye, one last nail in the coffin of what might have been.

"Okay." A kiss, soft, slow, gentle. One action to close the door on the past.

"Thank you." Calm, accepting, understanding, _resolved_.

"Yeah... We'll go over the spots later?" Hiding, cowering behind layers of indifferent apathy.

"Sure, later. Merry Christmas." Easy, calm, reversed from the earlier position, contented, resolved, moved on from.

"Yeah, Merry Christmas." Memories, sweet memories of a year ago, of a smile, a kiss, of a soft voice tinged with hope whispering _I love you_. Memories of his own voice, cold and harsh laughing in response. Memories of a year of mourning, of telling himself it was the right thing to do, that the _kid_ wasn't, couldn't be in love with him, not when he was in love with the _kid_ in return.

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><p><em>Thank you to my dear <strong>alizabthianrose, AshJovillete,<strong> **Rebellecherry, and littleone1389 **for the reviews. :3_

_Up tenth we have **Last Christmas**. A request from the lovely **Rebellecherry**. I'm sure it was nothing like what you were expecting, and I'm sorry... -_-;_

_On a sidenote: My dears, please go read and review __**Rebellecherry's Chasing the Moon**__. It's a fabulous PunkBrose story, and it deserves more loving! _

_Not much is set in stone for these fics - so if you'd like to fire me a song and pairing combo in a PM, I'll have a listen and see what I can come up with._

**_You can't give me an apple _****_for Christmas _****_like my students are already doing , but you can give me a review! ;)_**


	12. Driving Home For Christmas

_Warnings: Slash __(Colt/Punk),__ Profanity, Smut, Fluff._

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><p>"Where to?" Working Christmas Eve is the worst, there's absolutely no doubt of that in his mind. It's grime and filled with ill-tempered people who are convinced that they're the most important people in the World. Driving a taxi can be pretty horrible at the best of times, but at Christmas, it's the worst.<p>

"West Park." The girl who gets in the back of his cab smiles creepily at him, and Punk glances back at her. "You're cute." She giggles, and Punk nods vaguely. "Do you think I'm cute?"

"Uh..." Punk glances back at the girl, and then focuses on driving. "Sure... Uh... _Miss_, there is no West Park... There's Park West, but-"

"Just keep driving, I'll tell you when I wanna get out." The girl laughs, and Punk sighs, focussing on the road, hoping this strange girl gets out of the cab soon. "So... Are you married?"

"No." Punk mutters, hoping the girl in the back of his cab gets out soon.

"_No_? A handsome man like you? Hmm... I'm not married either..." She moves forward, her hand resting on Punk's shoulder. "Are you single?"

"No." Punk's voice is firm, and she huffs, sounding unimpressed.

"Here is fine." She snaps, and Punk reels off the price on the meter, taking the money from her, and getting a cool glare back.

"You shouldn't lead ladies on." She warns him getting out of the cab.

"I need to go to the hospital, _hurry_!" A heavily pregnant woman clambers into the back of the cab, and Punk glances back at her.

"Which one?" She looks like she might give birth at any moment, her face red and sweating.

"The closest." She moans, and Punk nods, driving as fast as he can to the nearest hospital.

"_Argh_!" The woman screams, and Punk puts his foot down, running a red light, worrying about it briefly but more concerned with getting this woman to the hospital.

"So how much?" The woman asks conversationally when they arrive, and Punk tells her, getting out of the cab, and opening her door, considering calling over an orderly.

"Isn't the baby coming?" The woman seems in absolutely no hurry, and Punk's getting worried that she's going to give birth in his cab.

"What? No!" She laughs, handing him the fare money.

"But the screaming-"

"Oh, I was practicing." She laughs, and Punk stares at her blankly. "This is my first baby, and I want to be fully prepared." She clambers out of the taxi, and wishes Punk a _Merry Christmas_.

"What the fuck." He sighs as he flops back into the driver's seat, his forehead resting on the steering wheel. "Fucking practicing? Who the fuck practices screaming in public."

"Not you I hope." A cool voice comes from behind him, and Punk can feel something digging into his back through the car seat. "Drive." He swallows, and starts driving, trying to keep calm. "Give me your money."

"What?" The person in the back seat looks like a kid, and there's a part of Punk that doesn't believe that the object digging into his back is the gun he first thought it was.

"You deaf?" The kid is trying to sound intimidating, but really, it's not working. "Give me your money!" The pressure on his back eases up, and Punk spots in the rear view what looks like a water pistol, real guns are generally not bright blue.

"No." Punk sighs, and stops at a red light. The kid makes a shocked noise, and Punk meets their eyes in the mirror. "That's not a real gun, and I'm not giving you anything."

"C'mon! I'm homeless, I'm starving... I need some money for food." The kid whines, and Punk stares at them coolly.

"And you thought trying to rob cabbies with water pistols was a good way to get cash?" He laughs at the kid.

"This is a real gun!" The kid protests, and Punk laughs, shaking his head.

"It's blue, ain't no way a real gun is gonna be blue." Punk snorts, and the kid pulls their hat down further, covering their eyebrows.

"It might be real, you get blue guns." They huff, and Punk shakes his head again.

"In videogames. Last time I checked this was Chicago, not Stillwater, kid." Punk laughs, and the kid sighs, looking miserable. Punk pulls over to the side of the road, and pulls a twenty from the bills he's made tonight. "Here... Go get some food." The kid looks at him gratefully, and Punk smiles. "Merry Christmas kid."

"Thanks old man!" The kid jumps out of the cab, and Punk waves goodbye to him.

"Finally caught up to you." There's a rap on the window, and Punk turns, meeting the cold stare of a cop. "You ran a red light, you were driving like a lunatic, and now you're dropping in a no dropping zone." The man is writing furiously on a ticket, and Punk stares at him.

"There was a pregnant chick, and that kid tried to fucking rob me! What the hell was I supposed to do?" Punk protests, but the cop clearly isn't listening to his pleas.

"The same thing we're _all_ supposed to do. Obey the Law." The cop hands him a ticket, and Punk stuffs it in the glove compartment. "On your way, I've got my eye on you." The cop warns Punk, and he nods, staring out at the empty streets. It doesn't look like he's going to be getting any more fares tonight, so he starts heading home, passing festively decorated houses, and silent empty streets. He's not made much tonight, not helped by giving some of it away, and having a ticket to pay, but at least he's on his way home, working on Christmas Eve is grim, but driving home is a relief.

He tries to be as quiet as possible when he gets home, tiptoeing around, trying to avoid making any noises that are too loud. His lover will be tucked up in bed, and Punk doesn't want to wake him, would rather he was fast asleep so that when Punk slips into bed beside him, there's only a brief moment of confusion, before he's pulled into a warm embrace, and soothed to sleep by his lover's snores.

"Hey." The soft voice from the couch is a surprise, and Punk glances over to see the figure of his lover sitting up slowly, a sleepy little smile on his face.

"What are you doing up?" Punk finishes taking his shoes and coat off, padding over to his lover, curling up on the couch beside him. The moment his lover's arms are around him, and his head is pressed against his lover's solid chest, the miserable night he'd just endured fades from his memory, leaving only the warmth and comfort of being held by the man he loves.

"Wanted to give you your Christmas present." There's a rumble of laughter under Punk's ear.

"Colt, you're fucking Jewish, you don't _do_ Christmas... I'm a fucking atheist, _I _don't do Christmas." This is entirely true, and one of the main reasons that Punk was working tonight. He has no religious attachment to this night, he's no attachment to any of the big winter festivals beyond annoyance that the stores will be closed for a day, and that everyone else in the city seems to have gone mad.

"I know... But I wanted to get you something." Punk stares at the little package that's placed in his hands, and then up at his lover.

"Colt..." It's a small square box, and Punk's almost sure he knows what's in this box, but he's too afraid to open it.

"Right now it's nothing special, just a box... Open it when you like." A hand brushes Punk's hair back from his face, a soft smile on the lips of his lover. "When you open it, it'll be special... So don't even _peek_ before you're sure." He smiles at Punk, waiting for some kind of acknowledgement of his weighty words. Punk nods slightly, holding the box tightly. They've talked around marriage, around making a legal commitment, but there's never been anything concrete decided. There's as many reasons for as there are against, but it's all been hypothetical till now, because now there's a box, with what Punk assumes is a ring inside. Colt kisses his forehead quickly, and stands. "C'mon, let's get you to bed." Punk lets Colt scoop him up, and carry him to bed. "So how was your night?" He starts turning down the covers as Punk pulls his clothes off, tossing them distracted at the washing box, the ring box forgotten on the bed beside him.

"Shitty... Just fucking shitty." Punk sighs, flopping backwards onto the bed, lying spread-eagled and naked, staring at Colt.

"Oh?" Colt scoops up the clothes Punk threw to the floor, and puts them and what he's wearing with the dirty clothes. Then he perches on the end of the bed, taking one of Punk's feet in his hands and rubbing at the sole.

"I got a ticket for running a red light when there was a pregnant chick in the cab, then some kid tried to rob me with a super soaker." Punk moans as Colt's fingers work magic on his foot.

"A super soaker?" Colt laughs, and Punk nods, moaning softly as Colt takes up his other foot. "Your job is perilous... You should look for a safer line of work, Punkers."

"Yeah..." Colt's fingers creep up his calf, kneading the muscle, then up to his thigh, where they get distracted. Colt has a curious obsession with Punk's thighs, he's never really understood it, but Colt can spend hours stroking, kneading, licking and nipping at Punk's thighs. "Love your legs." Colt's voice is quiet, and he leans over, pressing lapping kisses to Punk's skin, his tongue swiping over it with quick little dabs.

"Yeah... I've noticed." Punk moans. When they'd first started dating, he'd never thought of his thighs as being an erogenous zone, but the many careful hours Colt has spent _worshipping_ them changed Punk's mind on that. Now even the slightest caress can get him interested, those kisses have his blood rushing to his cock, his breath catching slightly. "There's a whole rest of me, you know."

"I know..." Colt looks up at him, a smirk on his lips. "But the rest of you isn't your thighs." Colt's lips press against his thigh once more, nipping at the flesh lightly.

"The rest of me would like some attention." Punk huffs, one hand tangling Colt's hair, scratching at his scalp lightly.

"The rest of you is loud and demanding." Colt moves further up Punk's body, kissing just above his belly button. "You thighs don't complain, they just sit there being pretty. The rest of you whines." A soft kiss just beneath the _straight edge_ tattoo under his rib cage. "The rest of you bitches." Another soft kiss just over his heart, and Punk's other hand rests on the back of Colt's neck, his thumb stroking the skin. "The rest of you is a lot of hassle." A third kiss, this time pressed against the base of his throat, and Punk moans quietly.

"The rest of me would like a kiss." Punk smiles as demurely as he can manage, which isn't all that, but he at least tries, and Colt laughs, leaning up for a kiss, letting Punk dominate it.

"The rest of you is still demanding, _beautiful_ but loud and demanding." Colt grins, and Punk snorts dismissively. He's never comfortable with being told he's beautiful, random body parts he can handle being told that they're beautiful, but to be wholesale told _he's_ beautiful unnerves him somewhat.

"You love the rest of me." Punk smirks, and Colt shakes his head.

"No." Colt chuckles, and pecks Punk's nose at the unimpressed look that crosses Punk's face. "I love _all_ of you."

"Hmm." Punk doesn't comment, his nails scratching at Colt's scalp some more. "Want you." He murmurs, pulling Colt back down for a kiss. "Want you in me." Punk's smile somehow doesn't break the kiss, but he does feel incredibly smug about the shiver that just passed through Colt in response to his words.

"Good idea." Colt kisses Punk again, and then reaches for the drawer where the lube is stashed, tossing it to Punk.

"You want me to do this myself? Lazy bastard." Punk scoffs, opening the bottle of lube, and coating two fingers, sliding one then the other inside of himself, stretching his body open as quickly and efficiently as he can.

"I'll get distracted, and I thought you wanted me to be _in_ you..." Colt licks his lips, taking his cock into his hand, stroking it as he watches Punk fucking his fingers. "Fuck... At this rate I might gets distracted anyways." He lies down on his side, stroking over Punk's skin.

"I _am_ distracting... I can't blame you." Punk laughs, and Colt snorts, slipping his arm under Punk's body.

"C'mere." He pulls Punk closer, and Punk pulls his fingers from his ass, turning to rest on his side, and throwing a leg over Colt's hips. "You never pick nice normal positions, do you?" Colt mutters, lining his cock up with Punk's ass, and easing inside carefully.

"Pff... _Normal_ is boring, besides." Punk takes Colt's hand and rests it on his thigh, moaning softly as Colt's fingers trail up and down his skin. "See... I knew you'd like that." Colt laughs, and the arm he worked under Punk pulls him closer still, letting Colt kiss him. Punk's hands frame Colt's face, and as they slowly move, his fingers trail over his lover's features. "Your _I'm concentrating really hard_ sex face is super cute, you know that right?" Punk laughs, and Colt stills inside him, a grin breaking out on his face as he starts laughing. "What? It is..." Punk grins, and Colt shakes his head.

"You're an idiot." He buries his face against Punk's neck, his shoulders shaking with laughter.

"What? I'm just saying it's a cute face..." Punk snorts, tugging lightly on Colt's hair, and rocking his hips, trying to inspire Colt into moving again. "C'mon... You can't wear a sex face whilst not sexing me up!"

"Oh _god_..." Colt groans, and moves his head to look at Punk again. "You're an idiot, and in a weird mood tonight." He kisses the tip of Punk's nose, starting to move again, drawing a quiet little moan from Punk.

"I'm thinking..." Punk smiles slightly, pulling Colt into a kiss. "Stop me." The smile falls from Punk's lips as Colt thrusts into him firmly, a gasping moan being wrenched from his throat. "Again." Punk's hands are little claws, digging into Colt's hair, the leg over his hips pulling him closer to Punk. "Harder." Colt complies as best he can; the position isn't great for much of anything, but caressing Punk's thigh and kissing him.

"Your brain is a terrible influence on you." Colt murmurs, nipping at Punk's shoulder. "Is it thinking nice things?"

"Circular things." Punk moans, his heel digging into Colt's back. "Round and round, like a merry-go-round."

"Poor Punkers." Colt kisses his temple, thrusting into him deeply. "Jerk off, that'll fix it." He grins, and Punk rolls his eyes, taking a hold of his cock.

"Jerking off, your answer to everything." Punk tries to laugh as Colt's cock rubs over his prostate. "There." He moans, laughing as Colt mutters _I know_ against his throat. There's no more words said, the only sounds are the soft, muted noises of two bodies moving against each other, and the moans of pleasure that movement causes. Punk comes with an inarticulate gasp, his body tightening its hold on Colt, before he relaxes, lying on his side, his eyes soft and hazy, his mind pleasantly blank.

"I love you so fucking much." Colt mumbles as he pulls Punk's sated and pliant body closer, coming with a muted cry, his arms tightening as his hips stutter with his release. His hand moves in an aimless gesture along Punk's thigh as it lies over his hips.

"Happy non-denominational winter festival." Punk mutters, and Colt pulls out of him with a tired laugh.

"You're an idiot." He mutters, pulling Punk to rest against his side, pressing a kiss to his sweat dampened hair.

"Yeah, but you love me." Punk chuckles, yawning, rooting around beside him, his fingers finding the little square box, and holding it up.

"I do." Colt agrees easily, his gaze fixated on the box in Punk's hand.

"You wanna marry me?" Punk turns to him, setting the box on Colt's chest. A wry little smile flits over Colt's lips as he licks at them nervously.

"I do." His voice is quiet, but confident, and Punk picks the lid from the box, inside is a plain little ring.

"Ask me properly." Punk smirks up at him, and Colt sighs, taking the ring from the box, twisting it around in his fingers.

"What you gonna say?" He sounds nervous, and Punk shakes his head, his smirk softening to a fond smile.

"You're not gonna find out till you ask, dork." He nuzzles up to Colt some more, his legs twining with Colt's.

"Fine... Punkers, will you marry me?" Colt looks even more nervous than he sounds, and Punk laughs, getting out of bed with a grin on his lips. "Hey! Where you going?"

"Wait!" Punk calls back, leaving the bedroom, coming back quickly, and kneeling beside the bed, a little box of his own in his hand that he opens, presenting Colt with a ring of his own. "I'll marry you, if you marry me." Punk smiles, and Colt laughs, swapping the boxes over, and sliding the ring on. "That a yes?"

"That's a yes, idiot." He laughs, and Punk slips his own ring on, grinning down at it. "I spoke to the registrar."

"Yeah... Me too... They told me that my fiancé had already put in a request for a marriage license. Pretty confident I'd say yes, huh?" Punk clambers back into bed, and Colt laughs, pulling him in tight, kissing him deeply.

"And with good reason... So uh... Happy non-demotivational winter festival." Colt kisses Punk forehead, and he finds he doesn't have the motivation, or heart, to correct what Colt just said.

"Let's just go with Merry Christmas, oh husband of mine." Punk chuckles, and Colt snorts, holding him close as Punk yawns.

"Happy Hanukah, wifey, Happy Hanukah."

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><p><em>Thank you to my dear <em>**Rebellecherry**_**, ****and ****littleone1389**for the reviews. :3_

_Up twelth we have Driving Home for Christmas. This was a suggestion from _**veomuertos**, and I hope it's somewhat you were hoping for. :3__

_Not much is set in stone for these fics - so if you'd like to fire me a song and pairing combo in a PM, I'll have a listen and see what I can come up with._

**_You can't give me an apple _****_for Christmas _****_like my students are already doing , but you can give me a review! ;)_**


	13. Fairytale of New York

_Warnings: Slash __(Colt/Punk) and (Cena/Punk),__ Profanity, Fluff, Split Personality in a kind of Dr Jekyll/Mr Hyde kind of way._

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><p>"The fuck you want, asshole?" It's not how I expected to be greeted when I knocked on my boyfriend's door, but once I realise who answered it makes sense. Punk hates me with a burning passion for reasons I've never had explained to me.<p>

"_Punkers_! Be nice!" His lover calls from the living room, and a feeling of complete and utter relief washes over me. The only person who can keep Punk calm and focussed is the man who shuffles up behind him, his arms wrapping around Punk's waist, when he's with Colt, Punk is manageable. "Merry Christmas, John." Colt smiles at me, and I nod vaguely, wondering if I should just leave.

"Yeah, uh Merry Christmas, Colt..." I think he's Jewish, and I know that they don't have Christmas, but it's bred in me to be polite, so I wish it to him anyways. Punk snorts, an unimpressed, unhappy look on his face.

"Thanks." Colt smiles awkwardly, and Punk pulls out of his arms, ignoring me and going back to the living room.

"He's in a mood?" I ask carefully. I'm never sure exactly where I stand with Colt. Our situation is very _difficult_. We're dating two different people, but they share more than a house, they share a body. I don't quite get how it works, I don't quite understand any of it, but I'm dating Phil, and Colt's dating Punk, and my Phil and Colt's Punk share a body. I've mental decided it's a split personality. I don't know if that's entirely accurate, but its close enough I guess. They're two very different people. Punk hates me, and I think Phil loves me, he at least _likes_ me, and I know I love him.

"It's Punk being Punk. You know what he's like." Colt laughs, and takes my coat hanging it on the rack. "I'll settle him down a little then leave you and Phil alone." He smiles at me, and I shake my head at him. I've known Colt for months now, and he's still a mystery to me. He's a nice guy, but he's not open with people, sure, he's plenty friendly, but it feels like a facade of geniality, rather than a real friendliness.

"He hates me." I mutter, toeing off my shoes, and wincing when Colt laughs, leaving me alone. It's depressing knowing that the other person who inhabits my lover's body hates me, but Punk makes no bones about his distaste for me.

"I do." Punk sneers when I enter the living room. He's sitting curled up by Colt, his head on Colt's chest, looking utterly content with being treated like an overgrown cat.

"Phil likes Cena, Punkers. Be nice to him for Phil, okay?" Colt's hand runs through Punk's hair, which draws a softly content sound from him.

"Hmm... For _you_ I will be _pleasant_." Punk mutters haughtily, and I sit on the end of the couch, my eyes glued to the TV screen, ignoring the happy couple beside me. Time seems to slow down to a crawl, and I can feel my awareness slipping as we watch countless terribly dull documentaries.

"John?" Phil's soft voice draws me out of the bad TV induced coma I was in, his thin fingers brushing over my cheek. I forget how beautiful he is until I see him again. He might share a body with Punk, but my Phil is so much more beautiful.

"Hey baby." My hand cups his cheek, and Colt snorts, moving Phil from his lap. Phil smiles at me, nuzzling into my palm, a sweetly small smile on his lips.

"I'll get going." Colt stands, and Phil nods at him, an awkward smile on his face. "If..." He points to the book on the table, and Phil nods again, standing and giving Colt an awkward hug.

"Bye." I call to Colt, getting a vague _bye_ in return, and Phil curls up beside me once more, his head on my shoulder. There's something heavy and sad hanging over him, and I run my fingers through his hair, and press a kiss to his temple. "What is it, baby?"

"It's nothing..." Phil sighs, and then moves away from me, curling into himself slightly. "Punk hates you." He mutters, picking up the book. In it, I know there will be everything Punk thought Phil should know about what happened today, and I know that before he goes to sleep Phil will write back to Punk. I've often wondered which one of them is the real person who should be in charge of this body. Is it the sweet soft Phil who curls up at my side, and blushes whenever I even kiss him, or is it the brash cold Punk who hates me and is only sweet and soft for Colt?

"He does... But you don't, do you?" I reach out and stroke his ankle, getting a shy little smile in return.

"No... I don't." He glances back at the book, smiling at whatever Punk had written. It's all in a code, I can't understand it even if I try to, and I have, Phil's let me see the book before, but it was all gibberish to me. "I... I don't hate you. I like you, a lot." He smiles timidly at me, and I grin back at him.

"Only like? Hmm... I more than _like_ you Phil." I smile at him, and he glances away again, his blush deepening. "In fact I lo-"

"Don't, John... _Please_ don't." His voice is tiny, so quiet I almost don't hear him talking, and I hold back a sigh. I've wanted to tell him I love him for so long, but he always stops me, _always_.

"Why?" It's frustrating not knowing, it's frustrating to love him so much but being unable to tell him, unable to declare my feelings from the rooftops for some unknown reason.

"Because..." Phil closes the book, and moves closer to me again. "Because I'll get scared, and go away." He finishes quietly, and I kiss his hair.

"Why will you get scared?" It's cruel to keep questioning him like this, I _know_ it is, and at this rate, I'm going to have to call Colt back to deal with a murderous Punk, but I think if I keep the questions small and soft I might be able to tease some answers from Phil without Punk stepping in.

"Because I don't understand." He sighs softly, curling up at my side. "I'm not well... I'm not _whole_. You don't love a real person."

"Colt loves Punk, and Punk's not well either." I know that's true, I know Punk and Colt are in love. I've heard them talking, I've heard Punk tell Colt he loves him, I've heard Colt tell Punk that he loves him in return. I've seen love in their actions. Their relationship is something I'm a little envious of, the depth and warmth of it is astounding when I consider the tiny baby steps Phil and I make, but they've been together for years, Phil and I have only had months.

"That's different... Colt's different, he's not you, and Punk's not me, and I like Colt, we're friends... Punk _hates_ you." Phil snuggles up to me as he talks, and I hold him tightly.

"Why does he hate me?" I've never known, not really, but I think I need to; I need to know why the other half of my lover despises me with so much passion.

"He thinks you'll hurt me... He says you were married, that you divorced your wife... That you're a _player_ because you cheated on her." Phil says softly, and I stare at him. It's true I divorced my wife; it's also true that I _cheated_ on her, but I didn't think Punk knew about that.

"I did, but I'm not a _player_." I'd never hurt Phil, he's nothing like anyone I've ever met, and not just because of his personality split. He's soft, he's gentle, he's _fragile_ in a way that I've never seen anyone be before. There's a delicate elegance to Phil, and I adore it, I _adore_ him. "I cheated on her, yes, but-"

"But _nothing_." Punk's voice snaps, and he rises from my lap, starting to pace the floor. "You were _married_! You loved someone enough to marry them, and you fucked someone else behind her back!"

"I didn't!" I stand, trying to use my height advance to intimidate Punk. It fails miserably, and he stares me back into sitting, leaving me feeling _tiny_ under his heavy glare. "I fell in love." I whisper, and he scoffs, grabbing the book, turning to a new page and scribbling furiously on it.

"With who?" He snarls, and I stare at him. His face is my Phil's but Phil never looks the way Punk does. Phil never wears these harsh scowls, never laughs as hard as Punk does, never seems to _feel_ as much as Punk can. Phil is mild and gentle compared to Punk, not a pale reflection, just a softer, sweeter person, just _different_.

"Phil." I say quietly, and Punk scoffs. "I say him in the gym, running on a treadmill... I thought he was beautiful. I had no idea what to say to him, but every day I'd watch him, trying to build up the confidence to talk to him. Then one day it was you who was there, with Colt, and I wondered what was different about him, because he wasn't himself." Punk snorts in disbelief, and I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. It's true though. I _knew_ that Punk wasn't Phil from the first time I saw him. Punk carries himself with surety. Phil is always a little timid, always a little shy, always cowering a little from the rest of the World. Phil is delicate, Punk isn't. I knew they were different people. "I thought you were twins." I shake my head, and Punk scowls at me. "It took me weeks to build up the courage to talk to him, and he was so nervous he barely spoke, he just blushed... I think that's when I really realised that I was more interested in him than I should have been. I was married, I was straight, and he's a guy." Punk sits, staring at me, the book in his hand.

"You'll hurt him. I _know_ you'll hurt him." Punk snaps, and I shake my head, staring straight back at him.

"Why isn't he with Colt? You're so convinced that he's perfect for you, why isn't he perfect for Phil as well?" It wasn't a smart thing to say, Punk looks furious, and I'm expecting him to swing for me.

"Colt is _mine_." Punk hisses, his eyes narrowed. "He's not Phil's type." There's something final in Punk's tone, and I stare at him, wanting him to explain himself more. "He likes big, musclely guys... Colt's not his type."

"Colt's not _small_. He's got _some_ muscle on him." I shrug, and Punk growls at me, perceiving an insult to his precious Colt.

"Phil likes big, _dumb_, meatheads who will _hurt_ him. Phil's an idiot." Punk huffs, and I shake my head.

"I won't hurt him." I want Punk to believe me so badly. He _has_ to understand that I love Phil; I'd never do anything to hurt him. I can't even conceive of being able to hurt my precious little Phil, the idea is abhorrent to me.

"You all say that, and yet." He taps the notebook. "There're enough stories in here of people like you hurting him... He's too delicate for the people he wants... He needs someone to protect him, not to abuse him."

"I would _never_ hurt him!" I couldn't, I can't even imagine _anyone_ wanting to hurt Phil. He's a perfect little jewel, someone to be treasured and protected; hurting him would be like abusing a puppy, inherently _wrong_.

"They all say that." Punk sighs, and shakes his head. "Every one of them has said they'll look after him, that they'll care for him, and every time..." He trails off, rubbing his hands together, looking small and cold, his shoulders shaking, his breathing speeding up.

"Do you want me to get Colt?" I stand, planning on going to Colt's apartment. It's just across the hall, and I know he'll come, no questions asked. Punk nods, his eyes drifting closed.

"_Please_... Talk to him, he'll... Just get him here." Punk's curled into himself, the book pressed to his chest by his knees. I move quickly, knocking on Colt's door.

"Cena?" He looks surprised, but doesn't ask any questions, just grabs his keys, locks his door and walks into the other apartment. "Punkers?" Punk's up out of his seat, and wrapped around Colt before I really know what's going on. Colt's swaying him gently from side to side, muttering soothing nonsense against his hair. "What did you do?" He asks me, his arms tightening around Punk's trembling body. By the way Punk's shaking, I'd say he was crying, but that goes against everything I know about him.

"We were talking... I was talking to Phil, and they switched, and then I was talking to Punk." I stare at them, standing nervously near the door. Punk says something softly to Colt, and he kisses his hair. I almost feel like I should be jealous of watching another man holding my Phil, but Phil isn't Punk, even a frail Punk isn't my Phil.

"You gotta let Phil make his own mistakes, Punkers." Colt mutters just loud enough for me to hear.

"But he'll get hurt _again_... I don't-"

"Shh... It'll be okay. I won't let him get that low again, I _promise._ C'mon, sit down with me. I'll talk to John, you sleep." Colt lets Punk go just long enough to sit on the couch, and Punk lies down, his head in Colt's lap, his face turned to Colt's stomach. "Sit down, Cena. You're making the place look untidy." He laughs, and I sit in a chair, staring at Punk's back. After a while, Colt looks up from studying Punk's face. "Phil tired to kill himself. Punk woke up in hospital terrified and covered with bandages. Phil started dating an asshole that beat the shit out of him. Punk woke up in a hospital terrified, covered in bandages and I almost got arrested. Phil was raped. Punk woke-"

"Up in a hospital?" I stare at Colt, and he smiles wryly. I had no idea, I've no idea. The relationship between Punk and my Phil is complicated, the actions of one has such a profound effect on the other, and it seems Phil makes terrible choices, and has had terrible things happen to him. It makes me want to bundle him in my arms and bubble wrap, to keep him safe forevermore. "I didn't know..."

"Phil gets into a new relationship, then Punk gets worried, and it all spirals. Take it slow... Don't rush Phil... I get that you want to move things forward, but if you really do love him, _wait_." Colt smiles as Punk snores once. "_Idiot_." Colt strokes Punk's forehead softly. "If you can't take it as slow as they need you to, walk away now before Punk and I have to deal with the consequences." He looks pleadingly at me, and I stare at him. "I've been with Punk since we were kids. I've known them for years..."

"When they were still one person?" I ask hopefully, and Colt looks at me coolly, but nods. "What... Which one?" I ask, and Colt glares at me.

"That's not a question I can answer... Punk is Punk and Phil is Phil. That's the way it is, and that's the way it's going to stay. If you can't deal with it, and I know a lot of guys can't, then leave Phil alone, _please_." He's pleading with me again, and I shake my head, I can't leave Phil alone, I'm too in love with him.

"I love him... I really do... He's like no one I've ever met before. He's sweet and delicate like spun sugar. He's smart, he's beautiful. He's everything I never knew I needed." Colt stares at me, an odd look on his face.

"Don't tell him that, not yet." He strokes Punk's cheek. "Did you give him his Christmas present?"

"No... I fucked up before I had time to." I laugh miserably, and Colt sighs, shaking Punk lightly. "Phil... Wake up." I can tell by the way he moves that it's my Phil that's in control of their shared body. The way he sits up, the way he moves his limbs slowly, carefully, it's definitely not Punk's movements. "Colt? What-"

"It's okay." Colt assures him, a smile on his face, and Phil nods, his back still turned to me.

"John left, didn't he?" Phil says softly, curling into himself, and I laugh, standing and resting my hand on his shoulder.

"_Never_." Colt frowns at me, and Phil turns to me, a happy surprised smile on his face. "I'm here for as long as you want me to be, baby." Colt snorts, and leaves. I hope that I don't need to call on him again, but he's close enough that if I need to it's not hard to do, I guess.

"I thought you'd be gone... I'm sorry I got scared." Phil looks away, and I tilt his face up to me.

"It's okay, baby." I trace over his eyebrows, and place a soft kiss to his forehead. "I'm sorry I scared you." He smiles at me, shaking his head, and then takes a hold of my wrists.

"Sit with me? We can watch something better than this." He nods to the TV that's still playing a random documentary, and I laugh, kissing his hair.

"Lemme give you your Christmas present first." I go and fetch his parcel from by the front door. "It's not much, baby, but I hope you understand the meaning." I smile, and set the package into Phil's outstretched hands.

"I don't have your present here... It's in the bedroom, I can go get it." He smiles at me, and I shake my head, wanting him to open this gift more than anything in the World. Phil carefully unwraps it, and stares down at the sweater, a smile on his face. He clearly recognises it, and I can't help the smile from spreading over my lips. It's my old college sweatshirt, one that Phil had told me looked warm, and it is, it's my favourite shirt, and as soon as he'd fingered the fabric, I knew I wanted to see the old faded shirt on Phil's body. It's more than an old shirt I'm giving him, it's something valuable to me, it's something I think should show how valuable he is to me. The look on his face tells me he understands, and the soft kiss he gives me confirms it. He pulls the shirt on, and snuggles up to me, letting me wrap him up in my arms, and I feel completely content. It's silly, but in my shirt, it's like he's truly marked as _my_ Phil.

"Merry Christmas, baby." I tell him softly, and he turns to me with a smile, kissing me again.

"Merry Christmas, my love." His words and his smile are by far the _greatest_ gift I've ever been given.

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><p><em>Thank you to my dear <em>**Rebellecherry**_**, ****and ****littleone1389**for the reviews. :3_

_Up thirteenth we have **Fairytale of New York**. This is a weird one, song chosen by_ _**Brokenspell77 **and the PunkEna mentioned causually by **Rebellecherry**. Please note, I know this isn't how a split personality, but it's a fanifc, as much as I love realism, a little unreality isn't a bad thing - right?_

_Not much is set in stone for these fics - so if you'd like to fire me a song and pairing combo in a PM, I'll have a listen and see what I can come up with._

**_You can't give me an apple _****_for Christmas _****_like my students did (many apples and weirdly some tanghulu which was awesome), but you can give me a review! ;)_**

**_MERRY CHRISTMAS!_**


	14. Frosty the Snowman

_Warnings: Fluff, AU._

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><p>"It's not fair." The little girl stomps her foot and glares up at the kindergarten teacher. "I wanna play in the snow too, but the boys won't let me." The teacher smiles awkwardly, patting the furious little girl on the shoulder.<p>

"Well, April... Sweetie, why don't you come help me and the other girls frost the cookies?" The teacher smiles softly, and the little girl pouts.

"I wanna build a snowman, or I wanna have a snowball fight... I don't wanna frost stupid cookies that all the _stupid_ boys are gonna eat! If I frost them I'm gonna lick them all, and then they'll catch cooties." The little girl laughs, and the teacher sighs, patting little April on the shoulder once more.

"Why don't you go out with the boys?" The teacher starts pulling on her apron, and April glowers at her, frustrated that the woman didn't pay attention to what she was saying.

"Because they won't play with me." April sighs, and stomps over to the window, staring out. The boys are making snowballs on opposite sides of the playground. She wants to be out there too, wants to be involved in something that looks so fun, but of course she can't be because she's just a girl and girls have cooties.

"Well, why don't you go out and ask them? Maybe they'll let you join in." The teacher leaves April alone, and she steels herself. She knows all the cool boys will tell her to go away, but there's _maybe_ no harm in asking.

"Hi!" April smiles brightly as she walks up to the group of boys, telling herself she's not intimidated by them all. They might be bigger than her, but she's more than capable of being useful in a snowball fight.

"Eww... A girl's talking to John." One of the boys laughs, and the boy closest to her, John Cena, smiles awkwardly.

"Hi April... The cookies are ready?" He asks hopefully, and April shakes her head, and stoops to scoop up a handful of snow.

"I dunno, I don't care... I wanna play with you. I'm a good shot." She grins, and the boys start laughing, nudging John, telling him that a _girl_ can't play snowball fights with them.

"April, you can't play... We'll hit you and you'll cry, cause you're a girl." John's best friend, Randy, explains to her slowly, and April starts forming her handful of snow into a ball. "Girls make cookies, boys make war." He smiles triumphantly, like he's just given her invaluable advice, and April throws her snowball at him, hitting him square in the chest.

"I'm a good shot." She smiles, and Randy scowls at her, clumsily grabbing some snow, making a ball and then missing her widely.

"If she's playing, I'm not." Randy turns to John, and he turns to April. John sighs, and shakes his head at April.

"Fine... I don't even wanna play with you." April stomps away, thinking how unfair the boys are. It's not fair that just because she's a girl they won't let her join in.

"Hey Ape!" From the other side of the playground a voice calls over out to her, and April turns to see Phil, one of the boys who doesn't seem to get on with Cena and his _cool_ friends, instead Phil spends his time hanging out with his best friend, both of them kind of odd men out. April tromps over, the snowdrifts are deep, but she's willing to struggle to find out what he wants. "You wanna help me and Scott build a snowman?" He's grinning, and Scott seems to building a snowball to turn into a snowman body part.

"Yeah." She smiles softly, Punk's grin gets bigger and Scott turns to her with a smile. Seeing them look so happy for her help makes April feel much better about the day. The _cool_ boys might not want her to play with them, but these two do, and all she wanted to do was play in the snow.

"So how come you're not making cookies with the other girls?" Scott asks, rolling his slowly growing snowball back and forth, gathering more snow as it moves.

"I didn't wanna make cookies. I wanted to play in the snow." April mutters, starting to make her own snowball.

"You do the middle, I'll do the head." Phil grins, and April nods, rolling her snowball around and around.

"How come I gotta make the butt?" Scott mutters huffily, and April laughs at him, getting a slight smile from him.

"Cause I'm the tallest." Phil says proudly, and April isn't sure how that makes any sense. Scott looks at her, and shakes his head, keeping on with rolling his snowball.

"How big we making it?" April asks once she needs to use two hands to roll her snowball around. Once her ball is on top of Scott's and then Phil's is on top of that, it's going to be a pretty tall snowman as it is, if they keep going even if Phil is the tallest they're not going to be able to reach to put the head on. "Cause I think this is big enough..."

"April has a point... You might be the _tallest_, but you're still a midget." Scott laughs, and Phil tosses a handful of snow at him, a putout look on his face.

"Taller than you." Phil mutters, and steps away from his snowball. "We need to decide where to put it first." Phil's surveying the parts of the playground that aren't full of the other boys snowball fighting.

"Here? By the tree?" April suggests, and Scott nods.

"It's a good place." He sounds very approving and April gives him a grateful smile, getting a happy one back from him. Phil makes an agreeing noise, and flaps his hand at Scott.

"Roll the butt over there, me and Ape'll carry the gut over, then the head." He sounds very proud of his head, and April can't stop from laughing at his incredibly pleased with himself smile. "What? It's a good head." He grins back at her, and Scott starts laughing at him. "It is!" He protests.

"It's great, Phil..." Scott calls over to them. "Now get those guts over here!" April and Phil struggle to lift the middle of the snowman over, and it takes all three of them to get it on the body. "Head?" Phil nods at Scott, and then goes over to his snowball carrying it back to where April and Scott are waiting. It takes some careful balancing but the head is finally secured on top of their snowman, and April takes a step back to admire their hard work. "_The head's a little small_." Scott whispers in her ear, and she nods, watching Phil fuss with the three balls of snow.

"_Yeah... But Phil's is big enough to make up for it._" She whispers back, and Scott starts laughing, making Phil turn around looking confused.

"What?" He looks kind of left out, and Scott's shaking his head with a grin on his face.

"April's really funny. We should play with her more." He says, and Phil nods looking delighted with the idea.

"She's funny, and has great aim. Did you see that snowball she threw at Orton?" Phil laughs, and April feels strangely proud. "I bet you could've got him right in the face if you wanted to." Phil laughs again, and April nods, feeling far happier than she thinks she should.

"I could've, but I'd have gotten in trouble." She smiles, and considers the snowman. It looks bare without anything on it to make it look like a man, as it is it's just a trio of snowballs. It needs a face and a hat at least.

"Funny and clever, welcome to the team." Phil holds a hand out solemnly, and April stares at it. "Shake, then we'll be friends, _proper_ friends." He tells her, and April takes his hand shaking it a little too enthusiastically before taking Scott's hand and shaking it too.

"It needs a face." Scott mutters, squinting up at the bare branches of the tree, jumping up and snagging a small branch, pulling it off, and snapping little bits off. "Mouth?"

"Looks good to me." April nods, and then grins. "There's the stones at the front, we can get a bunch for eyes and buttons?"

"You two go. I'll look for something for a hat." Scott waves them away, and Phil nods, catching April's wrist, tugging her along after him.

"How many buttons? Two... Three?" Phil's muttering softly, his hand still around April's wrist, and then makes an odd little yelp. A chorus of laughter comes from the boys snowball fighting, one of them had just hit Phil with a snowball.

"Brooks has a girlfriend!" One of the boys calls out, and Phil turns to look at them, not noticing April quickly making a little snowball pile behind him.

"Yeah, so what? She's a girl and she's my friend." Phil snaps, and April can feel pride filling her, it was an immediate response from Phil, he _really_ is her friend.

"Won't the boyfriend get jealous?" Randy calls, laughing, and April decides that getting in trouble will be worth it to see him with a faceful of snow.

"Won't John get jealous that you're talking to me?" Phil fires back, laughing and Randy's face turns red, John looking uncomfortable but amused beside him.

"Randy... Leave them alone." John tries to placate his friend, April smiles at him; he'd clearly seen the snowball arsenal she's amassed at her feet.

"No. _Fire_!" Randy calls, and a flurry of snowballs are launched at April and Phil. April starts throwing her own back, neatly avoiding most of the ones that are being thrown at her.

"Ape, here." Phil hands her a snowball, and April takes it without pausing in her assault.

"You're not throwing?" She asks, hearing Scott coming up, launching snowballs of his own.

"Phil has _the_ worst aim." He laughs, and April grins down at the snowball making Phil. "Makes a good snowball though." Eventually, the other boys stop throwing snowballs, John holding his hands up in surrender for them all.

"You win... We'll leave you alone." He says, looking contrite.

"_Fine_." Phil takes the role of spokesperson, and April grins over at Scott. He nudges her shoulder, nodding at Phil who's walked out into no man's land, shaking hands with John.

"We do all the hard work, and still he gets the glory." Scott laughs, and April smiles slightly, she doesn't mind, Phil's clearly more inclined to talk than be practical.

"Yeah... Hey did you find a hat?" She and Scott start walking to the front of the playground, grabbing some of the pebbles from the planters there.

"I found a bucket... I dunno if it'll be any good." He sighs, and April shrugs, patting his shoulder, heading back to their snowman

"It's okay! _I _have us a hat. Mr Orton and his huge head gave it to us." Phil laughs as he almost bounces over to them, and places the woolly hat on the snowman's head, moving aside to let April press the eyes and mouth into the face, Scott adding the buttons.

"That's a good looking snowman." Scott sounds pleased, and April nods in agreement.

"He needs a scarf." Phil frowns, and glances down at his own, unwinding it from his neck. "Too short." Scott gives Phil his scarf too, and Phil ties them together. "Still too short." He frowns, and April quickly unwinds her scarf, tying it to the other end of Phil's.

"Perfect." She beams, and Phil nods, winding it around the snowman's neck. The three scarves are very different, Phil's black, Scott's blue, and April's a bright _girly_ pink. "We make a good snowman." She laughs, and her new friends nod in agreement.

"A good team." Phil confirms, and Scott makes an agreeing noise. "You think they still need some help decorating those cookies?" Phil starts walking back to the school, followed by April and Scott.

"Do you think they'll need help eating them?" Scott sounds more interested in that, and April has to admit that's where her interests lie too, decorating is far less interesting than eating cookies.

"They gotta! There's a lot of them, and some of them might be poison... It's only responsible for us to check them, right Scott?" April laughs over at Scott, and he nods solemnly.

"As good people, it's what we should do." He grins at April, and Phil turn to look at them both, a huge grin on his face.

"I have the terrible feeling you two are going to get on really well." He laughs, and moves to stand between April and Scott, throwing an arm around both of their shoulders. April looks up at him, and can feel a huge smile on her face. Maybe she should listen to her teacher more often; some of the boys did play with her, and she had the _best_ fun with them.

"C'mon, we have cookies to go get!" She laughs, beaming when her new friends join in. It's been a good day, she got her snowball fight, her snowman, and most unexpectedly but best of all she got some new friends.

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><p><em>Thank you to my dear <em>**Rebellecherry**_**, ****and ****littleone1389**for the reviews. :3_

_Up thirteenth we have **Frosty the Snowman**. I know what you're thinking, you're thinking Christmas is over, but no! Christmas ends on the 6th of January, so you've still some time to send me a song and pairing combo! PM me people!_

_Not much is set in stone for these fics - so if you'd like to fire me a song and pairing combo in a PM, I'll have a listen and see what I can come up with._

**_You can't give me an apple _****_for Christmas _****_like my students did (many apples and weirdly some tanghulu which was awesome), but you can give me a review! ;)_**


	15. In Dulci Jubli

_Warnings: Slash __(Ambrose/Punk),__ Mild Profanity, Set in the **Visiting Grave continuity** (well after the current story - this is well in the future - so no spoilers for **First Dance**) Sequel to **I'll be Home for Christmas**_

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><p>When he'd left, Jon had promised that he'd make it back for Christmas. In all honesty, Punk had wanted to believe him, but he knows what the WWE are like, and he <em>knows<em> how they are about Jon. He's on top, as on top as he can get, and that means that he's going to be kept busy, no matter what he says to Punk. Reality and Punk's hopes for _finally_ spending a Christmas with Jon warred with each other, and now December twenty-fourth has come with no sign of Jon, so Punk's hope has waved the white flag. It's pointless to keep clinging to a desire that's never going to be realised, and he's relegated his dreams of Jon home for Christmas to the first one after he retires, whenever that is, resigning himself to spending this Christmas as he has the last few years, Jon on video call, and Cabana for company.

"I thought Gerbil Cheeks was supposed to be home this year." Colt's sprawled across half the couch, Punk's feet in his lap, trying but failing at resisting the bowl of popcorn balanced precariously on Punk's legs.

"He got held up, I guess." Punk shrugs, and Colt glances over at him, worry on his face. "Its fine, I was expecting it. It happens every year." Punk smiles wryly, and Colt snorts, flicking a kernel of popcorn at Punk.

"Still fucking sucks." He mutters, and Punk nods, taking the popcorn from his shirt and eating it, his attention on the TV screen. "I guess I'm not doing anything tomorrow." He offers, and Punk nods. It'll be another year of him and Colt watching shit on TV, eating too much, and complaining about being fat lazy bastards. It's not a bad way to spend Christmas, and Punk loves his best friend, but he loves Jon more. He wants to spend the day doing the exact same thing he'll do with Colt, the only difference being he'd be held in Jon's arms.

"Yeah... I'll dig out something to watch." Punk sighs, and Colt's thumb rubs over his ankle absently. "Call me before you come over, I'll make some food."

"I'll bring something." Colt offers, a smile on his face, and Punk nods, knowing that whatever the something is it'll be filled with calories and absolutely delicious. There are good reasons Colt's his best friend, one of them being his exquisite taste in food.

"You need to get married, Bana. Then your wife could cook for us." Punk grins at him and Colt snorts, tickling at Punk's toes.

"You're basically a fucking wife, you should be cooking, you dick." He snaps, taking another handful of popcorn, eating it slowly.

"My man's not here to be cooked for." Punk shrugs, opening his mouth wide, catching the piece of popcorn Colt throws at him.

"I guess..." Colt sighs, tossing him another piece of popcorn. "I should get fucking married... I've wasted years getting you married off, and I neglected to marry myself off too." He laughs wryly, and Punk takes his feet from Colt's lap, moving the bowl of popcorn to the table before snuggling up to his best friend.

"Next year... We'll find Mrs Cabana, someone to make Mama Cabana proud." He smiles at Colt, snuggling up some more when the weight of Colt's arm settles around his shoulders.

"I think Mama Cabana's convinced I'm a monk or something." He laughs, and Punk snorts reaching for the popcorn bowl, setting it in Colt's lap, and eating some more.

"She still thinks you're a fucking virgin too, I'll bet." He laughs, Colt joins in, and Punk turns his attention back to the show they're watching. There's a genial silence between them, one that communicates everything they've not bothered to say because it's already known. There are many reasons that Colt is Punk's best friend, and the most important is his ability to _know_ what Punk doesn't say. It's something that not even Jon has managed to learn, and Punk's eternally grateful for the man beside him. There are no secrets between them, no lies, no half-truths, no broken promises, just something pure, something honest. In a World riddled with corruption and dishonesty, the bond Punk has with Colt is utterly invaluable to him.

"I should get going." Colt yawns after a long time has passed, and Punk pulls away from where he was curled up beside him. There's a part of Punk that wants Colt to stay the night, to curl up beside his best friend and mourn Jon being away, but Colt looks tired, and Punk tends to kick. It'd be too selfish to try and persuade him to stay the night _again_.

"Yeah... You sure? You can stay if you want." Punk makes the offer, Colt'll know what he's in for if he stays, and Punk really does want there to be someone near him tonight. He's been on his own for weeks, Jon's time has been filled with promotional bullshit, there's been no time to come home and see Punk. Colt stands, and his cell beeps as he reads the message, a frown crossing his face. Punk narrows his eyes, frowning at his best friend as he gets to his feet. He knows that face, knows that it's one Colt pulls when he's trying to hide his real feelings from Punk. Whatever the message he received was, he's not going to tell Punk, not yet at least. Punk raises an eyebrow, getting a short sharp headshake from Colt.

"I'm not staying, Punkers." Colt pulls him into a tight hug. "Get your ass to sleep, and it'll be morning before you know it." Colt squeezes him tight once more, and Punk returns the hug just as fiercely, knowing he's _clinging_ but not really able to do anything about it.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, Bana." Punk nods, and steps away from Colt. "Call me before you come over, remember." Colt laughs, and giving Punk a loose one-armed hug.

"Sure. G'night Punkers. Don't forget to leave cookies and milk for Santa." He winks, and leaves Punk's home. Punk stands frowning for a few seconds puzzling over what Colt had just told him to do. He clicks off the TV, and ends up in the kitchen pouring a glass of milk, and placing some cookies on a plate near the Christmas tree. There's a reason Colt mentioned this, but Punk can't begin to work out what. He'd like for the message Colt got to be from Jon, he'd like for the milk and cookies to be something for Jon to snack on before coming to bed, and holding Punk, but it's a fool's dream, and Punk won't dwell on it. Instead, he goes to bed, and curls up in a nest of blankets, trying to convince himself that their weight is in fact the weight of Jon's presence, not merely fabric.

Punk had been fast asleep, had expected to be awoken by a phone call from Jon at some ungodly hour, all hyped up on anticipation and caffeine, desperate to open the present Punk had given him to take on the road. Yet what wakes him is the feeling of a finger running over his eyebrow, and a voice.

"_Love you... You're so fucking pretty when you're sleeping, Sphinx Bastard._" Jon's voice, pitched low and soft, like he's trying to avoid waking Punk up, and he lies still, feigning sleep. Sometimes Jon talks to him like this, his voice low and soft, saying the silly little things that are flitting through his restless mind. It's the only time he calls Punk a Sphinx though, and there's a bit of Punk that likes the pet name. He kind of enjoys the idea of being some great mythical creature, though Punk's pretty sure that Sphinxes were all female, and he's decidedly not a woman. "_Bet you thought I wouldn't be home... Didn't you? Bet you've got the Cupid Bastard all lined up to come over tomorrow and keep you company? Not this year, my Punkin Pie. This year, I'm home..._" Jon places a soft kiss to Punk's temple, and slips into bed behind him, wrapping his arms around Punk's waist, burying his face against Punk's hair. Punk fights a smile; it's hard to pretend to be asleep with Jon nuzzling him like this, so he gives up his charade.

"Cabbage Patch?" Punk murmurs, his voice soft from having been asleep. Jon makes a soft noise, and nuzzles Punk again. "You're not supposed to be here." Punk turns in Jon's arms, his eyes feel gritty, full of sleep, and he rubs at them. When he opens his eyes, Jon's staring at him with the _look_. Punk's never been able to articulate how that look makes him feel. It's like he's the single most important thing in the universe, and it fills him. He's not sure what it fills him with, but he's full of it, filled to the brim with no room for anything or anyone, nothing but Jon.

"I said I'd be home for Christmas, and here I am." Jon laughs softly, and kisses Punk's forehead. He nuzzles up to Jon some more, feeling a yawn coming on, and closing his eyes. There's no feeling in the World quite like lying held in Jon's arms, feeling those strong arms wrapped around him is better than any thrill of a fight, better than any job well done, there's _nothing_ like being held by his scruffy little Cabbage Patch.

"Hmm... Going back to sleep." Punk mutters, kissing Jon's chest, and falling asleep to the feeling of Jon's fingers caressing his skin.

"Punkin Pie?" Punk's woken up by Jon once more, but this time it's on purpose. It's still dark out, and Punk wants to smack Jon on the head, and tell him to go back to sleep, but Jon seems awake. Punk's learnt over the Christmases that they've been together, Jon is more into it than you would first assume.

"Why am I awake so early?" Punk moans, tugging the blankets up over his head, feeling Jon's hand snake under them, and run down his back to the waistband of his boxers, his fingers running along the band before slipping under and squeezing Punk's ass gently.

"Cause I wanna come before we go see if Santa did." Jon laughs, wriggling under the covers, and bracing himself over Punk's back. The warmth of so many blankest and comforters have no comparison to the warmth Jon generates, and Punk is never sure why he bothers trying to use them to imitate his Cabbage Patch when he's away, it's futile, but that never stops him. Missing Jon is the worst part of being in a relationship with him, it _always_ has been. Back in the beginning, when Punk wasn't sure what he wanted, he'd missed something but he hadn't known what, he'd _thought_ it was the sex, so he'd simply sought Jon out more often. Then once he'd left WWE, had walked out to recuperate, Colt had pointed out that it wasn't a cock that Punk was missing but it was the person that cock was attached to. It'd taken Colt coolly observing that Punk was more snugglely than usual for Punk to realise that somehow whilst he missed being fucked hard and fast by Jon, what he missed most were the occasions when they'd be lying in bed together, Jon's arms around him, talking about nothing. It had taken what Punk thought was losing Jon to make him realise how much he wanted to keep him. It had taken Colt's incessant meddling to get them to this stage. Punk's quite sure that without his best friend they'd have called it quits at the first sign of trouble. Jon and Punk are far too similar in far too many unhealthy ways. Yet, every time something goes awry, Colt's there dispensing advice that an Agony Aunt would be proud of, if only he'd use his vast well of romantic advice to his own advantage. It's sweet how Colt looks out for Punk's happiness so much, and whilst Punk tries to help Colt out, he's found over the years, he's not much help; Colt's damnedly picky. He's seemingly convinced that there's a _perfect_ Mrs Cabana out there, and Punk's fairly sure that Colt's already met and dismissed her after deciding that after the third imaginary kid she'd get sick of him being gone most of the time, and leave him for a postal worker. Punk's often thought Colt's life would be a lot easier if he'd stop being so damn himself for five minutes, but if Colt wasn't his Bana, Punk's not sure what he'd do.

"Hmm... I guess I could help you out there, but I need to piss first." It's not particularly sexy, but it is true, and Jon laughs kissing Punk's shoulder.

"I dunno... We could try water sports." Jon's voice is laced with mirth, and Punk snorts, squirming out from underneath him, levelling Jon with a look that Punk knows screams _no_. "Okay... _Fine_, nothing kinky for Christmas. I'll be here waiting for you." Jon flops onto his back tossing the covers off, and taking a hold of his cock, stroking it slowly. Punk shakes his head, and goes to the bathroom, coming back quickly as he can. Jon tosses him a bottle of lube when he returns, and Punk laughs, smirking at him as Punk kicks off his underwear.

"Presumptuous, aren't you Cabbage Patch?" Punk kneels on the end of the bed, coating two of his fingers with the lube, and easing them inside of himself. "You're pretty convinced I'm gonna want you in me?"

"I'm fairly confident in that, yeah." Jon's eyes are skimming over Punk's body, darting from place to place, like he can't decide where he wants to focus on. "I mean, you sleep with this." He produces the dildo moulded after his cock from under the pillows. "You fuck yourself with it, Punkernickle?"

"You _know_ I do, Alvin." Punk smirks at the wince Jon gives. He always hated that nickname; he seems to have an incredible aversion to the Chipmunks. "You watch me fuck it, listen to me coming on an imitation of the only cock I want." Punk leans forward, and nuzzles at Jon's hard cock. Punk has always enjoyed Jon's cock, has always liked the way it fills him, always liked the feel of the soft skin, even likes the smell of it. It's the best cock in the World, and one Punk's enjoyed possibly more than his own over the time they've been together. "Want me to ride you?" Punk asks, then runs his tongue up the underside of Jon's cock. "How'd you want me?" Jon's hand tangles in Punk's hair, and he pulls Punk up for a kiss. The sudden change in position has Punk quickly pulling his fingers from his ass to brace himself.

"How do I want you? You pose a difficult question." Jon mutters between socking pecking kisses. "Riding me is always good... But I'm not in the mood for that. No... I want something else." Jon tugs lightly at Punk, and Punk moves up, straddling Jon's thighs. "Gimme a suggestion." He demands with a smirk. Punk leans forward and kisses the tip of Jon's nose.

"A suggestion? Hmm... Reverse cowgirl?" Punk smirks, and Jon shakes his head, cupping Punk's cheeks, staring into his eyes for a few seconds.

"I don't want you on top, Punkin Pie. Keep trying." Jon laughs, and Punk huffs slightly. He'd not really wanted to be on top, but now that it's denied, there's a contrary part of him that wants it badly.

"Doggy?" Punk tries, and Jon shakes his head again.

"Wanna see your pretty face." He smiles, and Punk pulls away from him, lying on his back, his legs spread.

"Missionary?" Punk asks, and this time Jon moves between Punk's thighs, looking down at him consideringly.

"Put your legs on my shoulders." Jon grabs the lube bottle, and coats his cock. Punk raises his legs, and rests them on Jon's shoulders, groaning, as Jon enters him, folding his body in half. "Fuck... You're fucking perfect." Jon mutters into Punk's ear, and Punk scoffs, clenching his ass, making Jon groan, and bury his face against Punk's neck.

"You gonna move?" Punk asks softly, Jon's been lying over him motionless for a little while now, and it's almost concerning, not that Punk doesn't like being filled, but he'd kind of like to be fucked.

"Shh..." Jon hisses quietly. "Lemme remember how good you feel around me. I miss you so much when I'm gone."

"I know... I miss you too." Punk moves his head, forcing Jon to surrender his hiding spot. "I miss you fucking me, I miss your cock filling me like nothing else, I miss your cum in me, I miss being _claimed_ as yours, Cabbage Patch." Punk smiles, watching his words appeal to the possessive streak in Jon. As much as Punk enjoys being taken by Jon, he knows that Jon enjoys it a little more. For Jon taking Punk isn't just a good fuck, it's symbolically being told that Punk is his, he can have Punk and _no one_ is going to take him away again, Punk is Jon's and Jon is trusted to keep him safe, to bring him pleasure, to _love_ him. It's not just sex, it's not just _making love_, it's banishing the little doubts and fears that creep in when they're apart, the little doubts and fears their loves has instilled in them both.

"_Claimed_?" Jon smirks, and starts moving, his hips quickly gathering speed, pounding into Punk's body. His hands working under Punk's shoulders pressing their bodies together tightly. Punk moans deeply, his hands scrabbling at Jon's back, trying to pull himself closer still to Jon. He sure there's not actually anyway for them to be pressed more firmly together, but that's not stopping Punk from trying. "I'm gonna come, Punkin." Jon grinds out eventually, and Punk nods, he can tell Jon's close, can tell by the way his movements are getting slower, but firmer; the way his body pauses slightly when his cock is fully inside Punk, like he wants to make sure his cum is as deep in Punk as possible.

"Go on, come for me." Punk murmurs, his hands tangled in Jon's hair, his own hard cock trapped between, but not getting enough stimulation to make Punk come just yet. A few strokes more, and Punk can feel the warmth of Jon's release inside of him, the last few shuddering thrusts driving it as deeply as possible.

"Here, lemme." Jon pulls out of Punk's body, and then moves down, taking Punk's cock into his mouth quickly, sucking on the head, his hand moving over the length firmly. It doesn't take much for Punk to come, and before long Jon's kissing him again, his mouth tinged with the flavour of Punk's cum. When the kiss is broken, Punk holds Jon's face, staring at him. There's never a moment when Punk isn't grateful for Jon, isn't grateful for how much he loves, and is loved in return. "You're staring." Jon smiles, and Punk nods, grinning. He is staring, but he can't help it.

"I love you." Punk chuckles, pulling Jon back down to him, holding him close. "I love you, and I wanna go back to sleep." Punk yawns, and for a few seconds it seems like Jon is going to relent and let Punk return to the land of nod, but then he pulls away, leaving a well of cold instead of his warmth.

"C'mon, shower, get dressed, then we go open presents." Jon grins at Punk, and there's not much that can be done to go against that expression of innocently adorable enthusiasm. Punk knows he'll do exactly what Jon wants. At Christmas time, Punk is wrapped around Jon's finger, but he'd like to think that he has Jon wrapped around his finger just that little more the rest of the year.

Once he's clean, and dressed Punk makes his way downstairs. There's Christmas music on the stereo, the fire is roaring, and under the tree, there are lots of extra presents. Punk shakes his head at Jon, feeling slightly overwhelmed. He'd not been expecting this much of a fuss, but Jon's a sweetly romantic thing sometimes, and Punk isn't complaining. He _likes_ being romanced, likes being treated carefully. It's not something he can lie about or hide, and Jon indulges him far too much. Really, it's not _that_ much of a surprise that there are so many presents; Jon does like to spoil him more often than not.

"You gotta open this one first." Jon almost bounds over to the tree, and tosses Punk a package.

"What the fucking hell are you wearing?" The sweater Jon's put on is truly hideous, and he looks mildly ridiculous, if very festive.

"Ugly Christmas sweater." He beams proudly, and Punk shakes his head, staring at him. "What? It's Christmas Punkin Pie, gotta look the part. Open it!" Punk sighs, and he thinks he knows that in this parcel there's an ugly sweater of his own. "Put it on." Jon's grinning, and Punk pulls the ugly thing over his head. It's soft and warm, if incredibly hideous, and Jon looks delighted with the results. "C'mere, I wanna take a picture of us." Jon waves Punk over to the tree, and wraps his arm around Punk's waist. "Smile." He laughs, snapping a picture of them both, then shows it to Punk. In the picture, Jon's grinning from ear to ear, pressed against Punk's back, his chin on Punk's shoulder. Punk looks mildly bemused, but he is smiling, the look on his face soft and content. It's a _nice_ picture, maybe one of the nicer shots of them together, even if they are wearing awful sweaters in it.

"You look good." Punk smiles, and turns to face Jon, kissing him softly. "Open this one." Punk hands him a present from under the tree, and sits on the floor beside the tree, starting to unwrap his gifts. After a while, and amassing a vast array of gifts, there's finally nothing left under the tree, and Punk stands, intent on making breakfast, his stomach is grumbling, and he's heard one or two rumbles from Jon, that he's been staving off with a candy cane from the tree.

"Hey! Sit down." Jon stands, and guides Punk back to the couch. "I got one last thing for you, just wait there." Jon kisses the top of Punk's head, and leaves. Punk frowns, glancing at the pile of gifts Jon's already given him. There's not much else that Jon could give him and Punk isn't sure what this last gift could be. "Here." Jon drops a small box into Punk's lap, and Punk opens it, staring at what's inside.

"Jon?" He's not sure what to make of this gift, it doesn't make too much sense, and he needs some kind of explanation from Jon for it.

"So do you like it?" Jon asks softly, and Punk stares down at the little ring in the box. He already has his ring from Jon; he wears it around his neck, just as like Jon wears his. Punk knows the ring around his neck is too small for his finger, in a fit of stupidity, and wanting to be _officially_ off the market, he'd tried it on, and had to use dish soap to get it off again. He'd decided then that being official was over-rated, and the ring around his neck is more than enough of a symbol of the love Jon has for him.

"I have a ring." Punk stares up at Jon, and gets caught by the look in Jon's eyes. "This is more isn't it?" Punk whispers softly, his heart's racing and Jon moves forward, kneeling on one knee in front of him. "Jon?" Punk's mouth feels dry, and he _thinks_ he knows what Jon's going to say, he thinks he knows where this is going, and he can't get enough air to deal with it.

"Punkin... Punk... _Phil_." Jon smiles at him, taking Punk's hands in his own. "I've had you for years... I _want_ you forever." Jon's smile softens, and he strokes a thumb over Punk's fingers. Punk stares at him, feeling _sick_. He'd not expected this, and he'd certainly not expected his reaction to Jon proposing properly to be this panic attack.

"Jon... Cabbage Patch, I'm yours for as long as you'll keep me." Punk whispers, closing his eyes against the emotion in Jon's gaze. Reverence, adoration, admiration, _love_, nothing but pure unfiltered love.

"Will you do me the honour, and it is an honour Punkin Pie, of marrying me?" Jon's grinning at him, the tiny peak Punk had risked shows him Jon still staring at him with a big grin on his face, but it starts fading the longer Punk sits staring back at him. The words, the _word_ Punk wants to say is trapped in his throat, his hands are shaking, he can feel them trembling, and his heart racing in his chest. "Punk?" Jon sounds worried, and moves closer, his face almost too close to Punk's for comfort.

"I... I..." Punk tries to speak, but it's like his words are held in by some unseen force. "_Yes_." He manages to croak out. Jon cups his face, and kisses him gently. "Yes." Punk whispers again, his heart is still pounding, and his eyes feel hot, he feels horrifically emotional. "How could I say no? Why would I say no? I love you... Love you _so_ much, but why? Why now?" Punk glances away, feeling like a fool for asking the question, this is possibly the greatest moment in his life, and he's attempting to sabotage it by asking stupid questions. Jon's hand slides into Punk's hair, turning his face back to him, and Punk forces himself to meet Jon's eyes, forces himself to endure the perfection he feels when Jon looks at him with love.

"My contract's up soon." Jon smiles, and Punk stares at him, not sure where Jon's going with this, he'd not mentioned anything about his contract, but over the years they've been together talk of the WWE has dwindled down to the absolute minimum. "I'll be free... I just want to make sure you're not going anywhere when I'm not either." Jon laughs, and Punk closes his eyes. Two presents, the best two presents he's ever been given is what he's just received. First, he's getting married, properly married and not pseudo-married to the man he loves, and second he's getting his man at home. "You're not going anywhere are you? I was thinking of getting a dog. It'll take at least two people to train it, and I don't want it learning from Cabana." Jon smiles, and Punk laughs, throwing his arms around Jon, pulling him into a deep kiss.

"A thousand dogs, we can breed them or something." Punk laughs, and Jon clambers up on the couch by him, stroking Punk's face. "I love you." Punk can feel his face stretching painfully to accommodate his smile, and Jon kisses his forehead.

"I know you love me, Punkin Pie, and no matter how much you love me, I love you more." Jon's tone sounds earnest, and Punk thinks he possibly misses just how much he loves him, but that's okay. There's plenty of time to show Jon how much more Punk loves him, plenty of Christmases for Punk to try and top this gift.

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><p><em>Thank you to my<strong> guest, <strong>_**Rebllecherry, **_**and littleone1389** for the reviews. :3_

_Fifthteen we have **In Dulci Jublio**. This is a highly requested (by one person) sequel to chapter 4._

_Not much is set in stone for these fics - so if you'd like to fire me a song and pairing combo in a PM, I'll have a listen and see what I can come up with._

**_You can't give me an apple _****_for Christmas _****_like my students are already doing , but you can give me a review! ;)_**


	16. Silent Night

_Warnings: Slash __(Ambrose/Rollins) (Colt/Punk),__ Profanity, Fluff, AU._

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><p>The longer Seth spends in University, the more he grows to hate it. The longer he spends studying, the more he wants to jack it all in, and find something else to do. He's sick of lectures, he's sick of papers, he's sick of deadlines, sick of exams, sick of the halls, but most of all he's sick of the bars. He's <em>always<em> dragged out by his friends, and left nursing a bottle of beer whilst they go and seduce random people, or hang out with their _lovers_. He hates these _social_ gatherings, hates making small talk, he's a low-key kind of guy really, and would much rather not be dragged to _events_ like this gig in a small local club to watch his roommate's current boyfriend sing in some shitty band that'll break-up before they can _make it_. The worst thing about these bars are the people that hit on him, usually he attracts the wrong sort of attention, painted up Goth girls, who have the wrong equipment for him to be interested in, or guys like the one giving him the eye right now. This guy is hot, Seth's not going to deny that, but he's also _clearly_ the wrong type of man for him. He's got the wrong side of the tracks, rough around the edges look that Seth loves, and has learned is _never_ right for him. He almost wishes he were attracted to nice preppy guys in his classes, but they don't do it for him. He wants a guy who'll throw him down on the bed and show him the time of his life, but he also then wants that same guy to be sweet and understanding, to like poetry and foreign films. Seth wants a guy who doesn't exist, or knowing his luck exists and either isn't interested or is already taken.

"Hey... So..." The guy who'd been staring comes over, looking slightly drunker than Seth had assumed, and wearing the kind of smirk that makes his knees feel weak. "Can I buy you a drink?"

"I don't know can you?" Seth mutters, he's not in the mood for making a bad decision, and if he's indulgent of this guy a bad decision is exactly what he'll make.

"Ha, very funny." The guy laughs, and that smirk melts in to a smile that's even worse for Seth's joints. "_May _I buy you a drink?" The sparkle in his eyes, and the dimple in his cheeks is too much, and Seth nods, swallowing thickly.

"You may. I'll have the same again." He holds up his beer bottle, and the guy flags over the bartender, ordering two more beers.

"So, I'm Dean, and you're?" He grins, and Seth smiles awkwardly, picking at the label on his bottle.

"Seth... My name is Seth." The guy, Dean, smiles and plucks the empty beer bottle from Seth's hands.

"You know, _Seth_." The way he says Seth's name makes an unexpected heat pool in his stomach, and Seth just wants out of this noisy little nightclub and away from the very bad decision that is looking more and more appealing. "They say that if you pick at the label of your beer bottle, you're _sexually_ frustrated. Are you frustrated?" He almost leers, and Seth wants to cringe. It's a horrible pick-up line, but from this guy it works wonders, and he is very _frustrated_.

"Look... Uh, Dean." Seth takes a drink from the new bottle, trying not to meet Dean's eyes, knowing that if he does he'll make this bad decision, and he'll regret it come the morning. "I'm grateful for the drink, but I'm not really interested. So thanks, but no thanks, okay?" Seth hopes the smile he gives makes the rejection easier, and Dean laughs, necking his bottle.

"Sure." He shrugs, and there's a part of Seth that's stung by how easily this guy has brushed him off. He'd been laying it on pretty thick, and to be summarily dismissed with this isn't what Seth had expected at all.

"Well okay then." Seth turns to him, but Dean's already wandering off, already hitting on someone else, and Seth turns to his bottle again, picking at the label once more.

"Hey, Seth. What happened? I thought that scruffy and hot would be right up your street." Seth's roommate appears beside him, a grin on his face, and Seth sighs. Colt's a nice enough guy, but he's hard work in a lot of ways, and his taste in men runs dangerously close to Seth's own. He's not met the new boyfriend yet, Colt's been careful to keep them apart, and when he comes over, draping himself over Colt's back, Seth sees why. Tall, kind of skinny, scruffy, _clearly_ from the wrong side of the tracks, everything Seth looks for in a man.

"Ambrose struck out?" The boyfriend asks, and Colt nods, turning to press a kiss to the new boyfriend's cheek.

"Looks that way. Seth, this is Punk. Punkers, this is Seth my-"

"Ah! The infamous roommate. I've heard _all_ about you." Punk, and Seth isn't sure what kind of name that is for a person but whatever, grins squirming between Colt and the bar, flagging the bartender over, and ordering two sodas.

"I've heard nothing about you." Seth tells him honestly, and Punk laughs, turning in Colt's arms, looking unimpressed.

"You've not been bragging about me? I'm highly offended." Punk sniffs, and Seth keeps focussed on his beer bottle, ignoring Colt's quiet explanation that he didn't want to share Punk with anyone, ignoring the way they kiss, all soft and gentle. Colt's clearly smitten, and this _Punk_ seems just as taken, being stuck with _lovebirds_ is depressing at the best of times, but right now Seth wants to gouge his eyes out and go home.

"You're on next, Punkers." Colt says eventually, and Seth chances a glance over at them, wishing he hadn't, the soda is untouched, and Punk's grinning like a moron, his hair in disarray. "Have fun."

"You aren't going to wish him luck?" Seth wishes he hadn't said that because it causes one of those awful shared laughs that only happy couples get to have, and he really wishes he'd made that bad decision with Dean.

"Luck is for losers." Punk laughs, pecking Colt on the cheek, and Seth holds back a sigh, focussing on his bottle.

"You gonna be home tonight?" Seth asks Colt, turning to look at him, only to realise that his roommate is transfixed by his lover on stage. The band play strange punk rock covers of old Christmas carols, and whilst Seth will admit that Punk's a decent enough singer, watching Colt _swoon_ over him is too much to handle. It's plenty cute and plenty sweet, and Seth's roommate is clearly infatuated with Punk, but all Seth feels is mildly annoyed, and a little drunk. Once Punk's set's finished, he comes back over, and Seth's more than certain he's not going to be seeing his roommate again tonight.

"So what did you think?" Punk asks once he'd finished kissing Colt, and Seth nods, sinking his beer.

"It was good, _interesting_." He smiles, and Colt looks positively delighted, clearly taking Seth's praise more to heart than Punk, who smiles with a hint of disbelief. "I'm gonna head home, I'm pretty tired, and my mom's gonna be calling me pretty early tomorrow." Seth flags over the bartender to pay his tab.

"You got money for a cab?" Colt _always_ worries about Seth getting back okay. It's a strange quirk, but there's more than a streak of mother hen in him.

"I'll get the bus, it's nothing, don't worry." Seth tries to reassure him, but he knows that even if Colt drove him back to the dorms himself, he'd still worry.

"He's a big boy, Colt... I'm sure he'll be fine. Besides..." Punk leans over and whispers something in Colt's ear, and the look that crosses Colt's face tells Seth that whatever he said isn't anything Seth wanted to hear.

"Yeah, I'll see you later, Seth." Colt takes Punk's wrist, and the two leave Seth alone. He has a feeling that this particular boyfriend might be sticking around for a while, but Colt seems happy, so that's _nice_ for him. Seth gives a quick glance around the club, spotting the guy who'd been hitting on him earlier talking, _flirting_, with someone else, and weirdly Seth feels a little offended by that, but he'd knocked him back, and you can't expect people to drown their sorrows in a drink after one guy tells you they're not interested. So he leaves feeling strangely dejected and maudlinly introspective. Another Christmas alone, another year spent alone, another year left of University before he has to go out and face the real World. It's all kind of depressing really.

"_Here's_ where you slinked off to." The voice has the hairs on Seth's arms standing on end, it's all dark and smoky, rough but smooth, unmistakeably the voice of Mr Dean Ambrose. "I'd been hoping to persuade you to have another drink once Punk and his new other half left, but you went and left too... Had me worried that pretty little Punkin had decided he liked the idea of three-ways after all." Seth turns to look at Dean, and regrets it. In the dark, badly lit club, he'd been hot as hell, in the slightly better lighting of the street, hell seems positively frosty compared to this man. Everything, from the well-fitted jeans hugging his calves and thighs, to the scruffy leather jacket, to even the cigarette dangling between his lips, the man looks like he was plucked from Seth's wet dreams, and it's such a bad idea to even be talking to him.

"Yeah... I just wanted some peace and quiet... Clubs, they're not really my _scene_." Seth turns his collar up against the wind, and stuffs his hands in his pockets.

"I'm not sure they're my scene, but you know... Sometimes it's nice to _connect_ with people." Dean laughs, flicking his cigarette butt away, and coming closer to Seth. "It's nice to experience a little human contact, you know." He wraps an arm around Seth's shoulders. Seth knows he should shrugs that arm off, but Dean's gloriously warm compared to the cold night, and he doesn't want to let that warmth go. "So why were you at the club?"

"Enforced human contact." Seth mutters, and Dean laughs at him, moving a little closer, pressing himself against Seth's side. "I'm told I'm too anti-social."

"Ha, me too." Dean laughs, squeezing Seth's shoulder lightly. "You seem pretty friendly to me."

"Try me on Twitter." Seth laughs, and Dean snorts, sounding unimpressed.

"Social media is killing the art of conversation. I despise it." He sounds scathing, and Seth laughs. It's pretty clear that this Dean guy is more interesting than Seth had first expected. He'd _thought_ he'd be nothing more than a drunk looking for a fuck, but maybe he's looking for a little more than one night. It doesn't make him any less of a bad decision though. There's nothing about him that would suggest that he's got the type of brain that Seth is attracted to, even if the outside matches Seth's type perfectly. "Twitter, Tinder, _Snapchat_... They all make it socially acceptable to judge people based on a picture, on a hundred and forty characters. A man's heart cannot be divined from a picture, to know a soul you need more than word limit." Dean sounds passionate about this, and Seth has to admit, he might have been judging the book by the cover when it comes to him, but it is a lovely cover.

"Well, you know... People are pretty shallow." Seth offers, and Dean snorts again. "But you're right, it's socially acceptable to be shallow. Nowadays it's damn near encouraged." Seth smiles awkwardly, feeling ineloquent under Dean's calm gaze.

"Hmm... Very true. You don't sound like you particularly wanted to be out tonight, why were you?" Dean smiles at Seth, and Seth sighs, shaking his head. He hadn't wanted to be out tonight, but if he'd not gone out, he'd have not met Dean, and as far as bad decisions go, he's turning out quite well.

"My roommate." Seth smiles, and Dean nods.

"Punk's new other half?" Dean asks, and Seth nods. "Punk's taste is always surprising to me... It's like a new flavour every month." He laughs, and Seth feels kind of bad for Colt, he's infatuated with this Punk guy, and by the sounds of it, he's going to get bored quickly. "But this one's been around since before the Summer break... They went home to Chicago together. I don't think I've ever seen that capricious bastard this invested in someone who wasn't himself." Dean laughs, and Seth shrugs, surprised more than anything that Colt had kept his relationship with Punk secret for so long.

"You've known Punk long?" Seth asks, and Dean nods, his fingers stroking Seth's shoulder.

"A little while... He's an _interesting_ person." Dean answers vaguely, and Seth nods but doesn't add anything else to the conversation, instead just standing there, soaking up Dean's warmth. "Can I kiss you?" Dean asks suddenly, and Seth turns to him, eyes wide with shock. "You look like you need a kiss." Dean smiles, a small cute smile that makes those dimples come out, that makes his eyes glitter with mischief, a smile that Seth can't say no to.

"Sure." Seth leans forward, and the first press of Dean's lips to his fills him with dancing sparks of electricity. His hands move up to tangle in Dean's messy hair, and he arches his back into Dean's hands as they run down it to squeeze his ass. Seth's brain feels like it's melting, the way Dean kisses is reducing his normally keen mind to softly contented mush, and even if it's a terrible idea, he knows what he's going to ask next. "Come back to mine?" Seth pants, glancing up as the bus pulls into the stop. Dean grins back, and steps away, waving at the open bus door.

"Lead the way." He lets Seth on first, and follows him to a seat, taking the window side, and pulling Seth to sit by him. Once he's on the bus, Dean's mood seems to change, he sits staring absently ahead, not saying anything, and Seth has to hold back the urge to sigh. He'd known this was a bad decision from the second he'd made it.

"So..." Seth glances over at Dean, taking in his profile, trying to resist the urge to lean over and kiss him again. That one kiss at the bus stop had been good, fantastic in fact, and Seth would like some more.

"So?" Dean smirks, his face turned to the window, his reflection giving nothing much away. Seth sighs, wondering where he'd gone wrong, at the bus stop, in the club, Dean had seemed up for this, interested in helping Seth make a bad decision, but now he seems different.

"You changed your mind?" Seth nudges Dean with his shoulder, getting an arm wrapped around his own for it.

"Yeah." A hand starts running through his hair, and Seth tenses, wanting to pull away, but not being able to because of the arm around him, and the contented feeling trickling through his body. "I did... A quick fuck? No... That's not what this is, I don't think so anyways." Dean uses his other hand to turn Seth's face to him, cupping his cheek. "This, I think, could be something more." Seth stares at him, and Dean laughs. "If you want it to be, no pressure. If all you want is a roll in the sack, then by all means, let's go, but if you wanna try this out, I'm gonna sleep in Punk's other half's bed, and we're gonna grab breakfast in the morning, talk some more."

"I don't know the last time he changed those sheets." Seth mutters, and Dean tenses beside him, reading the statement wrong, because Seth would like breakfast. He'd felt _something _more than lust when Dean had kissed him, something more than the desire he'd felt in the club, and he thinks that might be worth exploring. Dean might be the one thing that makes the time Seth feels like he wasting in University be worthwhile. He might be that guy that doesn't exist, and he'll never know if he doesn't try, he'll never know if all he has one night of undoubtedly amazing sex.

"Oh..." Dean sounds disappointed, and then turns Seth's face to his, a slightly mournful smile on his lips as he leans forward claiming Seth's mouth with another brain-breaking kiss, his hands tangling in Seth's hair. "I'd hoped you'd go the other way, but one night is good, I guess." Dean mutters resigned, and Seth shoves at his shoulders, forcing from distance between them.

"No." He says firmly, and Dean frowns, looking confused. "No... I mean the kissing is good, and I'm sure the sex would be better." Here Dean laughs, his hand resting on Seth's thigh, trailing up it just a little. "But, I felt it too... I wanna see where this goes, so what I meant was you're going to have to sleep in what are potentially dirty sheets." Seth smiles, and Dean grins, his hand removing itself from Seth's thigh.

"I can live with that... Anything's better than listening to Punk and the other half _making_ dirty sheets." Dean laughs, and Seth grins over at him.

"His name's Colt..." Seth mutters, frowning. "Do you room with Punk?"

"Huh, yeah. Why?" Dean's arm is still around Seth's shoulders, and if he's entirely honest, he's enjoying it a lot more than he thought he would. He can't remember the last time he sat and was snuggled like this. If a relationship is what he gets out of this, and that relationship involves this much snuggling, Seth's going to be pretty content. "You think they set us up... That'd be the sort of shit Punk'd pull... The asshole." Dean laughs, and squeezes Seth shoulders. "So where's our stop?" Seth presses the bell, and stands, holding a hand out to Dean, silently pleased when he takes it, and keeps a hold as they get off the bus. So far, Dean has been pretty close to Seth's perfect guy, if he has the same interests he'll be flawless, and Seth doesn't hold out much hope, but he can't resist asking.

"So Dean... Who's your favourite poet?" It's not a hugely important question, but Seth doesn't want Dean to be as bad a decision as normal. Dean laughs, and squeezes Seth hand, his thumb stroking Seth's knuckles.

"I'm my own favourite poet." He laughs, and Seth silently thanks Colt and his boyfriend, and considers getting them a Christmas present for probably giving Seth a man he was convinced didn't exist

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><p><em>Thank you to my dear <strong>guest<strong> (may I direct you to chapter 3)**,****littleone 1389, and Brokenspell77**__for the reviews. :3_

_Up sixteenth we have **Silent Night **- A request that was from **johncenapunkjericholic**, I hope it was okay! :3_

_Not much is set in stone for these fics - so if you'd like to fire me a song and pairing combo in a PM, I'll have a listen and see what I can come up with._

**_You can't give me an apple _****_for Christmas _****_like my students are already doing , but you can give me a review! ;)_**


	17. Santa Baby

_Warnings: Slash__ (Colt/Punk),__ Profanity, Fluff, AU._

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><p>If you'd asked Punk his feelings on Christmas, he'd tell you, in exacting detail, exactly how much he hated the damn holiday. He hates everything from the bright lights to the cheery music, to the trees, to the snow everywhere. There's not one thing about Christmas he likes, apart from maybe the cookies, but no one doesn't like cookies, so they hardly count. He's always been a Grinch when it comes to Christmas, and since starting working in retail it's only gotten worse. Every customer is an insufferable dick; every other cashier is as pissed off and as mildly homicidal as Punk feels. There's one thing different about Christmas this year, and that's the Santa's Grotto in the middle of the plaza outside of the store he works in.<p>

It's a big wintery wonderland, with queues of kids standing waiting to get in and meet old Saint Nick, or whoever it is in the costume, and Punk knows who is in that costume, at least he knows the guy's face, if not his name. He's one of people who work in the afterschool-tutoring place on the far side of the plaza. He sits in the Grotto all day, and then helps kids with their homework. He's obviously a nice guy, with a soft spot for kids, but that's not the most important thing about this guy in Punk's mind. No, the most important thing is that he's cute, painfully cute, all big arms, a gorgeous smile, and a great ass. Punk's never really had a reason to get close to the guy, and this Grotto isn't really giving him one, but at least he's closer now. The only problem is the Santa outfit spoils the view. Punk's never been one of those guys who want to be banged by Father Christmas, but right now he wouldn't complain.

One of Punk's old friends is working as an elf in the Grotto, stuck wearing an ugly green uniform that makes him look ridiculous, but it does give Punk an opportunity to put some feelers out on Santa himself. Is he single, is he gay, is he interested in scruffy tatted up punks, like Punk if he is? His friend is helpful, even if he did take great delight in teasing Punk. It's okay though because Punk's questions were answered in the affirmative, single, gay and interested in scruffy mildly homicidal store clerks named Punk. It's more than Punk was hoping for, and so a plan was formed between the two of them soon enough. The day for putting their plan into action comes around far too quickly for Punk's liking. Whilst he could delay it, if he does, Punk knows that he'll keep delaying and never actually go and _speak _to his Santa. So he steels himself, leaves the store, nods to his friend and enters Santa's Grotto.

"I'm sure you're too old to be in here." Santa laughs from his throne, and Punk smiles slightly, waving at his friend, who shakes his head, and leaves them to it, the door clicking locked behind him.

"I'm pretty sure you're not old enough to be Santa." Punk retorts, cursing the fact he'd come over on his lunch break. He's still dressed in the hideous polyester uniform of the store, and he'd wanted to be wearing something a little _sexier_ for meeting his Santa for the first time.

"Ha, well I guess... But there's no age limit on being an Ambassador of Santa Claus." Santa laughs from his seat, and Punk tries to slink over as appealing as possible, a little swing in his hips. "So, how can I help you? I'm guessing you're not here to sit on Santa's knee and have a photo taken." Santa laughs, and Punk can feel his ears getting hot. He'd not really object to sitting in Santa's lap, the photos he'd like to take are probably not suitable for somewhere kids are going to be though.

"Ambassador? You're not even the real Santa? Fake Santa... I bet the beard's a fake too." Punk's close enough to tug on the beard lightly, but it doesn't budge. "You grew that beard out?" Santa laughs and shakes his head.

"Sock glue." Santa smiles, and Punk stares at him. "What? Kids try and tug the beard off, when it doesn't move, they're damn surprised. Gotta keep the illusion up as much as possible." He grins, and Punk shakes his head, feeling slightly out of his depth. He'd not really come to this Grotto with much of a plan other than talking to Santa, and whilst his friend had hooked him up with this opportunity, he'd not really helped in any other way, he doesn't even know Santa's name. "So... What can I do for you?" Santa smiles awkwardly, and Punk thinks the expression he's wearing is probably awkwardly uncomfortable as well. He takes a deep breath and perches on Santa's knee carefully. Santa's eyes widen slightly, his hands hovering near Punk, but not touching him.

"Come eat with me." It's not the best invitation to go on a date Punk's ever given, but Santa laughs awkwardly, his hands resting on Punk's waist lightly, and Punk thinks it might have been okay after all.

"Right now? I'll have stay in costume... I can't have the kids seeing me eating with someone normal though..." Santa frowns, and Punk stands, staring at him.

"You're saying yes?" He's surprised, honestly surprised, and Santa laughs, standing up as well.

"I've heard nothing but how nice, and funny, and charming the punk from the store is from the elf all week... For the last two weeks I've been resisting the urge to go over and say hi to the pretty, if murderous looking punk in the store across the way. You're damn right I'm saying yes." Santa laughs, and Punk glances away. _Pretty_ isn't something he's overly fond of being called, but for Santa he'll let it go. "Here, elf costume." Santa hands him one of the elf costumes from a box behind the throne. "Get changed quick, and we can get going, I've got an hour off, so we'll have to eat somewhere close." Punk starts pulling the elf get-up on, grateful Santa kept his back turned so that Punk can have some privacy to swap one outfit for the other.

"How about the bistro on the left? They do a good sandwich." Punk offers once he's changed, and Santa turns to him with a smile.

"Sounds good to me. So... I'm guessing Elfie didn't tell you my name?" He laughs, and holds his hand out. "I'm Colt." Punk takes hold of his hand, and smiles. The grip around his fingers is sure, and firm, but there's no pressure, just a solid grip, and a thumb that runs lightly over the back of his hand.

"Punk, but he told you that, right?" Punk smiles slightly, and Colt shakes his head, reluctantly letting Punk's hand go.

"I thought he was joking. You're name really is Punk? Huh... It fits you." He smiles, and Punk ducks his head slightly, pulling his elf hat on. "You make a fine elf." Colt smiles, his eyes roaming over Punk, stopping on where the tunic ends and there's nothing covering Punk's legs but the striped tights. Punk tugs at the tunic a little, trying to cover more of his thighs, but gives up and straightens up to flick the bell on the end of his hat.

"C'mon Santa lemme feed you up. You've got a busy day ahead of you."

In the bistro, there are several staring patrons. Colt seems to still be very much in Santa mode, smiling and in general being far more genial than Punk would ever be to complete strangers, but people are nice to Santa, and they're dicks to people who work in stores. After ordering Punk sits considering what topic to bring up first, he wants this to be an opportunity to decide if Colt might be worth genuinely pursuing. Punk's made moves based on physical attraction alone before, and has the emotional scars to prove it's a bad idea. This time he wants to know what he's getting into before getting involved.

"So, Punkers... Favourite sport?" Colt seems to have the same idea as Punk, but is less inclined to delay, and that version of his nickname Punk has to admit he kind of likes. He's had many pet-names derived from his nickname over the many relationships he's had, but never has he been _Punkers_ before.

"Hockey and baseball." Punk laughs, and sips at his drink. "I can't pick which one I love most before you ask."

"Hey, a Winter and a Summer sport, make sense to me. Which teams?" Colt smiles, taking a bite of his sandwich.

"Hawks, and the Cubs." Punk's expecting some kind of comment on his choice of baseball team, but he's been a loyal Cubbies fan for the entirety of his life, he's heard every smartass comment there is, there's no way Colt can offend him with snide anti-Cubs remarks.

"Twenty-fifteen the prophesy will be fulfilled." Colt smirks, and Punk grins at him. It seems he and Santa Claus have something in common. They talk baseball, and old movies for a while, one eye on the clock, they've only got an hour, and it flies by. When it's time to go back to the Grotto, Punk almost wants to skip working in the store, and become an elf for the rest of the day to stay talking to Colt, but he has bills to pay, and retail provides the money to do that, so continuing this _date_ will have to wait. He follows Colt into the Grotto, and spotting his clothes on the throne where Colt had left them, making a beeline for them.

"So this was a first date right?" Punk smiles, tugging his elf tunic down a little once more, he's not comfortable in just it and the tights. He's sure his legs look ridiculously fat in the horizontal stripes, and Colt's staring isn't helping him feel less self-conscious.

"Stop it." Colt smiles, batting Punk's hands away from tugging at his tunic. "You look great... Like really _stupidly _hot for being dressed up as an elf. It should be a crime for you to hide these legs." His hand hovers close to Punk's thigh, but he pulls it back reluctantly. "First date? I'd say so." He smiles, and Punk snorts, but steps closer to Colt.

"First of more?" Punk rests his hands on Colt's shoulders, a little smile on his lips.

"Many, many more." Colt nods, and his hands move to Punk's waist.

"So... First date... Do I get a kiss?" Colt laughs at Punk, and one hand moves up to take the elf hat from Punk's head, his fingers running through Punk's hair, then pulling him closer, and kissing him. It's a kiss that starts soft and slow, but ends up with Punk's hair in a mess, and Colt licking his lips with a glimmer of hunger in his eyes.

"Second dates get kisses too right?" Colt asks, and Punk nods, stepping away, changing quickly back into his work clothes. "You free tonight? Dinner, my treat?" There's something mischievous in Colt's eyes, and Punk has the distinct feeling that it might not take too many dates for them to progress from kissing.

"I think I'm free." Punk smiles at him, and Colt grins, taking his place on the throne. Punk comes over, and tweaking Colt's hat. "So... Santa, am I on the naughty or nice list?" Punk smiles perching on Colt's knee once more.

"Hmm... I don't know... I'll let you know after a few more dates." Colt laughs, and Punk snorts, standing. "You want a present little Punkers?" He smiles at Punk, and reaches into the sack of gifts beside him, pulling out a mysterious gift. "Put it under your tree." Colt smiles, and Punk nods, heading for the Grotto door. "Any time you wanna come be an elf... I could do with the help on the weekends you know." Colt chuckles, and Punk snorts, remembering Colt's gaze transfixed on his thighs.

"Maybe... I'll think on it. I finish at six, so I'll come by then?" Punk pauses looking back at Colt. "Or later if you want me to be wearing something nicer than my civilian clothes, or an elf costume, I guess." Punk winks, and Colt shakes his head.

"I wouldn't say no to the elf costume... But six is good. Have fun at work, Punkers." He laughs, and Punk leaves the little Grotto walking past the first little kids queuing to see Santa. They're all starting at him, muttering about how he's too old for Santa. Punk laughs and shakes his head, a smile on his face, and the taste of Colt on his lips, thinking that he's possibly just right for Santa.

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><p><em>Thank you to my dear <strong>littleone 1389, <strong>_**johncenapunkjericholic, **_**and Rebellecherry **__the reviews. :3_

_Up seventeenth we have **Santa Baby **- A request that was from **AshJovillette**, I hope it was okay! :3_

_Not much is set in stone for these fics - so if you'd like to fire me a song and pairing combo in a PM, I'll have a listen and see what I can come up with._

**_You can't give me an apple _****_for Christmas _****_like my students are already doing , but you can give me a review! ;)_**


	18. The Coventry Carol

_Warnings: Minor Slash __(Colt/Punk),__ Profanity, Mentions of Previous Child Abuse, AU._

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><p>When we moved into the new house, I didn't think much of it. It was a house, kind of like but completely different to the old one. My mom was the most excited, was keen to make a good impression on the new neighbours, my dad had gone straight back out to work after the move, leaving settling in to the three of us, my mom, my older brother, and me. The neighbours were friendly enough, the neighbourhood was nice enough, and even the new school was fine. I made new friends, I got on with life, nothing much had changed for me, until the day it did.<p>

"Mom!" The stupid novel I'm supposed to be reading for English is missing, I left it lying on the desk in my room, and now I _really_ need to read the stupid thing, but I can't find it. My room is clean and tidy, so I can assume that my mom has been in to tidy today, which means she might have moved the book. "Mom!"

"What?" My mom appears unexpectedly, laughing at me as I jump in fright. "You're jumpy, young man... What did you do?" She sounds suspicious, and that's entirely unfair, because I called her to accuse her of things, not the other way around.

"What did _you_ do? Where's my English homework?" I fold my arms, and scowl at her as she brushes past me, and walks up to the desk.

"Its right here, Colt... Put your glasses on, dear." She laughs, leaving my room, and I stare at the book sitting on the table. It hadn't been there before, there was nothing there, I'm sure of it.

"Yeah..." I grab my glasses and the book, flopping down on the bed, and try to read. I'm not a big fan of reading. Words on a page don't mean much to me, I prefer stories I can see and heae, I like movies, I like TV, I even listen to Talk Radio. I like my words spoken to me instead of written down, but I _need_ to read this book or I'll fail English, and if I fail English, I get kicked off the football team, so I'm reading this book. Only it's too boring to read, and I'm tired, a nap then I'll read this book.

"Colt! _Colt!_ Dammit! Scott Colton! Dinner!" My mother's voice jolts me from my sleep, sending me tumbling from the bed. I'm sure the book at been on my chest when I'd fallen asleep, but I didn't hear it land on the floor.

"Bookbookbook..." I glance at the bed, but there's no sign of it there, so I look under the bed, and it's not there either. This book must have some kind of special cover that makes it blend into its surroundings, because when I look back at the bed, it's sitting there. "I must be going mad... Too much studying." I mutter, heading downstairs to eat.

After dinner, I head back to my room. This book needs to be read, but once more, I'm faced with the problem of not being able to find that damn thing.

"God fucking damn piece of shit book! Where the fuck is it now! Fucking thing must have fucking legs!" I'm pissed; this is the third time this book has vanished in one day. It's getting ridiculous. I've not idea how I can keep losing a book, it's not like it's camouflaged in my room, it's basically the only book in here, so I've no idea where it could keep wandering off to. I _know_ I left it on the bed, but it's not there, and it's not like books can grow legs and take a walk. It has to be my brother playing tricks on me.

"I'm sorry." There's a soft voice behind me, and the book I need for my assignment lands on the desk beside me, all along my back is a draft, the air noticeably colder than it should be. "I didn't mean to cause trouble." The cold seems to move away from me, and I'm terrified. The other kids had been joking, I was sure of it, but this house really is haunted. I turn around slowly, expecting to see some kind of scary ghost, but there's nothing there, just the empty room.

"Hello?" I call out, and there's a breeze beside me, the air temperature dropping.

"Hello." The soft voice comes again, this time from beside me, where the cold air is.

"You keep stealing this book-"

"It's not stealing, it's _borrowing_." The voice says again, the cold moving away from me. "You don't seem all that interested in it... And I'd never read it before." The voice is small, and kind of difficult to hear if I don't pay close attention.

"Is it any good? I need to write a paper on it..." I laugh, if the ghost has read this boring thing, then maybe it can tell me what happens and I can write the paper based on what it tells me.

"It's okay... I liked the part with the sword fight, and prince is interesting." The voice seems to be moving around, and one of the trophies on the shelf near my bed moves. "You're good at football?"

"Not too bad, so about the book?" I shouldn't be plying this ghost for its thoughts, but I'm really not a big reader, and if the ghost is, then I may as well take advantage.

"Ha... You need to write a paper on it?" The voice asks, and the trophy is set back on the shelf.

"Yeah... But I've not read it, and I need to hand the paper in on Monday." I rub the back of my neck, trying to spot anything that would give away where the ghost is, but the only sign seems to be the air getting colder, and you can't _see_ that.

"You should read it then... But I don't think you will... I've never seen you read anything even when you have to." The ghost laughs, and I frown, wondering how long this ghost has been around. "Look... uh... Scott, my name's Phil, and I've read the book... Maybe, if you want, I could help you with this paper?" A coldness settles beside me, and I turn to look towards it, there's nothing there, but I suppose the cold is the ghost. "I'm pretty good at English." I'm not one to decline the kind offer of help, so I turn to the desk, taking up pen and paper.

"Okay, Phil, but uh... Call me Colt. I'm only Scott when I'm in trouble. What is this book about then?" The ghost starts talking, and I basically write down what he says, knowing it's far better than anything I could come up with on my own.

A few days later the teacher seems pleased with the paper, giving it the highest grade in English I've had in a while, and I can't complain about it, but she did ask me how I'd improved so much. I'd told her I'd gotten a tutor, because really that's what Phil's become. For a ghost he seems quite nice, I'd discovered he was a baseball fan after flicking through the TV channels one day, and the feeling of cold had settled beside me on the bed. It's kind of strange talking to something I can't see, but all week I have been, and it's kind of nice really, like having an imaginary friend that's _real_, at least as real as a ghost can be. I've tried asking Phil questions about himself, but he never says anything, and it's kind of bugging me. I want to know who is, well was I guess, I mean who he is now is a ghost, not that that's all there is to him, but he won't tell me anything about himself so to me, all he is, is a ghost.

In the end, I decide I should try and find out something about Phil, and the house, so on Sunday, I end up in the library researching, trying to find out about who Phil _was_ and what happened to him. He's still not been very communicative on anything about himself. He's happy to talk about almost anything else, but when I try to ask about him, and his life, he goes away, or is at least quiet.

"You live there?" A voice comes from behind me, and I turn to see an old lady, her hair steel grey, her face wizened like an apple.

"Yeah..." I tell her, and she sucks air in through her teeth before sitting in the chair beside me, a tense look on her face.

"Is he still there?" She asks softly, something odd flits through her eyes, something not quite soft, but not as hard and tense as is there now.

"Who?" I ask her, and she looks at me, her lips pursing tight.

"The ghost." Her voice drops to a whisper, and I nod. She seems like she knows more than she's letting on, because at my nod she looks incredibly sad. "That poor baby." She sighs, and shakes her head. "Come with me." She pats my shoulder, and I follow her to a different part of library, taking a seat on the chair she points to, before she wanders off to the shelves, and comes back with a thick collection of newspapers. "His name was Philip Brooks." She opens the collection, and on one of the papers is a picture of my house, and a little insert picture of a boy, about my age. The photo is in black and white, but the whole paper is, the date is some time in the eighteen hundreds. "He died due to neglect." She smiles sadly, touching the picture gently.

"Neglect?" I stare at the picture, and it does look like Phil was pretty skinny, his eyes in the photo seem to be ringed with black.

"His parents locked in him the top bedroom, ignored him, didn't feed him, there's rumours that they took money from men so they could..." She trails off, and I stare at her in horror. She touches the photo once more. "Those are the rumours, he never told me anything, never said anything about who he was... I tried to help him move on, but he never did." She sighs, and I stare at the photo, thinking of the friendly ghost that helps me with my homework, and watches baseball with me, that he died like that, that he lived that life it's too unfair. Phil's a nice guy, for a ghost, and he deserved a better life than that.

"His parents?" I want there to have been some retribution, some kind of payment made for the death they forced on Phil, and the woman sighs, folding her hands in her lap.

"The father was executed, the mother committed to an insane asylum, she died five years later. They never told the whole story and... There was a brother." She looks at me, her eyes focussed on my face. "The brother kept the house in the family. It only left when I sold it to the family your parents bought it from." She sighs again, rooting through her purse, producing a bag of candies. She takes one without offering it to me, and I almost want to demand one from her, but that'd be as rude as her not offering in the first place. "I wanted to help him, but I never could." She smiles sadly, and stands. "Ask him if he remembers Rose, it'd be nice to be remembered by a ghost." She touches my shoulder gently, and I stare down at the picture of Phil, trying to commit it to memory, trying to guess at the colour of his hair, or his eyes. I wonder if they'd be the same deep hazel green of the old lady who just left. I stay a while longer reading as much as I can about who Phil was, and the more I learn, the more I want to help him too. His life had been hard and cruel, starving, beaten, abused, _raped_. His death when it came had to be like a release, but he's still here, still in that house, still in that one room where he died.

"Where were you all day?" Phil asks once I'm back home and in my room. It looks ridiculously tidy, so I guess Phil must have been bored. I toss a book onto the bed, and aren't all that surprised when it's lifted into the air, turning over so Phil can look at the blurb on the back.

"That the one you wanted, right?" I ask him tossing my bag into the corner, hearing a slight tsk from him.

"It is. Thank you." Phil sounds happy, and I'm trying to picture the miserable kid from that newspaper sounding so happy. "You were at the library all day?" He asks me, something quietly unhappy creeping into his tone, and I nod, sitting in the chair by my desk. "You did some research didn't you?"

"What colour are your eyes?" I blurt the question out, and Phil laughs at me, the book hovering in mid-air near the window.

"They were green." He says softly, the curtains ripple as Phil moves, the book lands on the desk by me, and the cold that makes up Phil is in front of me, I can feel the difference in temperature keenly.

"Family trait, huh? I never pictured you with green eyes." I tell him, and the cold moves away with a laugh.

"No? What colour did you think they'd be?" I'm not sure where in the room Phil is, but he's pretty far from me, the temperature is nice and cosy where I'm sitting.

"Brown, a fine manly brown." I laugh, and Phil snorts, sounding amused.

"Like yours?" He asks, and I nod, standing and going to grab my bag, there's a whole bunch of homework I need to do for tomorrow.

"A fine manly set of eyes I have." I chuckle, pulling books out of the bag, and scattering them over the desk. The English papers are moved, and a pen starts hovering over them, the cold air settling beside me. "You just start doing it now? I don't even need to beg for help?" I ask. Over the course of the time I've been talking to Phil, I've begged him for help more than once. There's a sudden coldness behind my head and the strange _ghost_ of a smack to it.

"I'm sick of the begging, this saves time... I'm far too soft on you." Phil laughs, and I grin over to where I think he is.

"You're my friend. Friends help each other out." I tell him, and he doesn't say anything for a long time, the only sign that I'm not alone in the room is the pen moving over the paper beside me, writing my English homework out. When the pen stops, I turn to stare at where I guess Phil is, wanting to see something of him, but I know it's pointless to want that. "Hey, Phil?"

"Uh-huh?" The cold seems to drift away from me, and there's a silly part of me that'd like to grab Phil, to stop him from being able to just go whenever he likes. He sounds sad, and I think that this might not be the right time to ask him about what happened in his life, so I shake my head.

"Just making sure you're still there." I shrug, and the cold air is behind me suddenly.

"I'm here." Phil says quietly, and I nod, returning to working on the math homework in front of me. One day I'll ask him about what I learnt in the library, but not today.

"So... Do you not celebrate Christmas?" Phil asks me, and I laugh at him, getting an annoyed huff from him.

"No, we're Jews, Phil. No Christmas for us." I tell him flopping on to the bed. There's a cold spot down near my feet, so I guess that's where he is, but as ever, I can't _see_ him. I kind of want to though. I want to see if the picture the lady in the library showed me is accurate. He'd looked like a kind of miserable kid, but hearing him talk, spending time with him, he seems pretty cheerful to me, though I've no idea how. Phil's life had been so horrible, but maybe being dead for so long has given him time to move on from his life, and enjoy his death.

"Jews?" He parrots back at me, and I nod. The cold hasn't moved from by my feet so I know he's still sitting there. I want to see what he looks like, I've an idea, but nothing concrete not really. I want something tangible of him, something more than a picture in an old newspaper.

"Yeah... You don't sound happy about that." I wriggle my toes, and all I can feel is the cold near them. I want something _physical_, I want to be able to see, to touch my friend. I'm going to need to do some research into seeing ghosts, I guess.

"What no! I am! It's just..." The cold moves, and I sigh, wondering where Phil could have gotten to, I wish I could see him as he moved around my room, I wish I could help him somehow.

"Phil... We're friends, right?" There's no response, and I suppose that Phil's gone to where ever it is he goes when he's not _here_.

That night I have a dream, a strange dream of a dark, cold room, and the feeling of being afraid, of there being nothing but hopeless despair and pain, so much pain that seems to come from everywhere. When I wake up, I lie staring up at the ceiling, feeling sweat trickle down my skin, and there's a cool presence beside me.

"We are." Phil says softly, and I can feel the cold moving over my sweating forehead.

"We are?" I mutter, and there's a quiet laugh beside me, the cold moves away. "I know we are, Phil... I just wish you'd talk to me." I tell him quietly, and I give up trying to spot him in the darkness.

"Colt... If I tell you things, you have to promise to still be my friend." Phil sounds so very miserable, and I want to comfort him in some way, I want to be able to hold him close and tell him that I'll be his friend no matter what he tells me.

"Phil, you're my friend, unless you're plotting on murdering me or my family that's not gonna change." Phil laughs, and I smile into the darkness. The cold of Phil's presence settles beside me on the bed, and I move over a little, wanting to give him some more room.

"You read the paper right? Rose showed it to you, didn't she?" His voice is tiny, and I nod. I don't know why he'd think me knowing the horrors of what happened to him would make me not want to be his friend. "She didn't tell you what I did to deserve that, though, did she?" He sighs, and my hand moves without thinking, it was a simple reflex to want to comfort the sound of that misery, but all that happens is my hand passes through cold air to rest on the bedclothes.

"Phil... There's _nothing_ you could have done to deserve what happened to you." I tell him fiercely, and Phil sighs again.

"_Please_, just listen to me, and don't hate me afterwards." He sighs, the cold moving away from me.

"Come back." I don't want him far away. I might not be able to comfort him, but I want him close by, I want to feel the cold of his presence. "Please, stay with me." The cold returns, and I keep my hand by it. It's the closest to actually touching Phil I can do.

"I was normal... Completely normal until one day." He sighs, and I close my eyes, trying to picture him in my mind. "One day I saw the boy across the road. His family were poor, immigrants. My parents didn't want me to talk to him, but I wanted to, I felt like I _needed_ to. So I went over, and we talked. His English wasn't great, but over the months, it got better, and we started to become friends. We got closer, and closer... Then Christmas came." Phil pauses, and is quiet for so long that I think he's gone again, but the cold is still there, so I wait for him to talk once more, my fingers wriggling near the well of cold air. "There was mistletoe over my door, and I shouldn't have, but I did." This time the cold moves, leaves the bed, and I sit up.

"You kissed your friend?" I ask the darkness, and there's a quiet sobbing noise from a corner of the room. I go over to it, feeling the chill of Phil's presence. "And that's why you deserved what they did to you? Phil... No, kissing someone... You did nothing wrong." The sound of sobs gets louder, and I want so badly to comfort Phil properly.

"I kissed him, he kissed me... We... It was wrong... I was sick. My parents did the right thing." Phil says softly, and I fight tears, _aching _to hold him. Phil might be dead, but he deserves some comfort, he deserves something more than thinking his sexuality made it okay for the people who should love him the most to abuse him, and leave him to die locked in a room. "They tried to help... They tried everything... They..."

"Phil?" There's sobs from Phil, low soft, frantic sobs. My fingers are _itching_ with the need to hold him close, and stop him weeping.

"It hurt... I always thought it would feel good, but it hurt... Scott, they hurt me so much, and you weren't there. You promised me you'd keep me safe, and you didn't." The cold vanishes, and I'm left staring at the wall, not sure what had just happened.

Phil doesn't talk to me for a few days. I can feel his presence every so often, and he does my English homework, but he _says_ nothing. It's strange, and try though I might, I can't get him to say a single word to me. Christmas is approaching, and I think I want to do something nice for him, so I end up back in the library, looking up Christmas traditions from long ago on the Internet, wanting to keep what I'm doing a secret from him. Phil's words to me, he last thing he'd said to me has been playing on my mind, and I want know some more about it, so really that's the second reason I'm in this library. I'm hoping Rose will be here. I don't think he was talking to me when he said _Scott_, and I want ask about this neighbour.

"Hello again." I approach her cautiously, and take a seat beside her. "I want to ask you some questions... About Phil." She turns to me and nods cautiously.

"Fire away." She says, taking a candy from her bag, but neglecting to offer me one again. I wonder if rudeness is just her way, or if they're special candies other people can't eat, laced with narcotics or something.

"Did he say anything about a neighbour to you?" I decide being blunt is probably a good idea, and she fidgets uncomfortably before standing and getting another collection of newspapers, opening it to a paper dated six months before the one with the picture of Phil. On the front page is a picture of a boy. A boy who looks scarily like me. A boy with my name. A boy who was murdered. Phil's neighbour, the boy he kissed, and kissed him back.

"You've been gone all day, and now you're sitting down here. Don't you have homework to do?" My mother's voice jolts me out of my thoughts. They've been dark and circular since I found that picture, since I found out that Phil's neighbour had been murdered by persons unknown, and his family had moved to the other side of Chicago, the side my family are from. The police hadn't much cared, some poor immigrant Jewish family's kid gets killed, it was their own fault for living where they shouldn't be. I can't shake the picture out of my mind though. That kid had looked just like me, and Phil had kissed him, by the sounds of things had had feelings for him.

"Mom... Why am I called Scott?" My mother looks at me, and I stare back, trying to keep an innocent expression on my face.

"It's some family name of your father's... It's a good name. You're not planning on changing it to Colt Colton are you?" She laughs, and I shake my head.

"It's been in dad's family for a long time?" I ask her, and she levels me with an exasperated look, setting the fabric she's stitching aside.

"Yes... Some great-great-great something was murdered, and it's been in the family since then. Why the sudden interest?" She asks me, and I shrug.

"School project." It's a decent enough excuse really. She nods, and smiles at me.

"Ask your father when he's home." I nod, and stand. I really do need to get on with my homework. I doubt Phil will have relented in his ignoring me, so I don't need to worry about having to talk to him with all of this on my mind.

"Where were you?" There's a rush of cold air around me as soon as I enter my bedroom, and Phil sounds panicked. "You were gone all day. We've homework to do... _You_'ve homework to do." His panic is melting into misery, and I want hug him, cheer him up somehow.

"I was at the library." I sit in the chair by the desk, noticing that my English assignment is completed, and the Math one is open, with lots of erased numbers on it. "You're horrible at Math." I laugh, taking up the pencil, and the cold of Phil's presence is behind me. "Thank you for the English though... I'm the worst at it." I laugh, and the cold moves to my side.

"Why were you at the library?" Phil asks quietly, and I close my eyes, not really wanting to talk about this, not just yet at least. I need to process this all, I need to try and work out what to do with the facts.

"I'll tell you in a bit, okay?" The cold leaves me then, and I almost want to call Phil back, but I don't, I keep my head down and keep solving equations.

It takes me hours, and by the time I'm done, it's time to sleep, but I feel like I owe Phil something in the way of an explanation, I owe him the truth of what happened to his neighbour, then maybe he can move on. I'm not sure I want him to, he's got my grades up, and he's good company, but he needs to let this go, and be where ever it is ghosts go once they've dealt with their unfinished business.

"Phil?" I call out to him once I'm in bed, but there's no answer, and the temperature stays comfortable. "I'll tell you when you're back." I mutter out into the darkness, and fall asleep.

_"You're an idiot... We shouldn't be doing this here." A soft hand on my cheek, and a quiet laugh, gentle like the chiming of bells. "We'll get caught." A soft kiss to the tip of my nose, and I open my eyes, and stare. He's beautiful, always beautiful. His soft brown hair in his eyes, a smile on his lips, and his eyes, big, shining deep green and filled with love. Love I know I return, love I've felt every second he lets me hold him, every second I know he's even breathing, I feel that love. _

_"It'll be okay." He assures me, and I can't help but pushing my luck a little. Kissing him is risky, especially in the open like this, but he's so beautiful, and I can never resist him. My hand tangles in his hair, pulling closer, kissing him deeply. "More." He pants, and I shake my head, trying to move away, but he clings, his arms around my shoulders. "Kiss me again." He demands softly, catching his bottom lip between his teeth. I can't resist that; I can't not kiss him again. The hand that pries me from him is rough, and it throws me to the ground, but I don't care for myself, all I care about is him, all I care about is protecting Phil from his father. _

I wake up from the dream, that I _know_ is a memory, in a cold sweat, my chest heaving, adrenaline coursing through me. That has to be the day Phil's father found out about him and the neighbour, the start of Phil's confinement in this room. It'd been Christmas; they'd been under the mistletoe again. They must have had a year together, and by the way those kisses had felt they must have been so in love. That dream had felt so real that I know it has to be a memory, but if it was Phil's, and I imagine that's whose it had to have been, why I was kissing him? Phil doesn't know what it's like to kiss himself, those thoughts didn't sound like they belonged to Phil.

"Are you okay?" Phil's voice is soft and worried, and I reach out for him, surprised when I can feel something under my fingers. "What?" Phil says softly, and I stare at the too thin arm I can feel, and can barely see in the gloom of my bedroom. "Scott?" He sounds worried, and I look up at him. His face is too pale, his lips tinged blue, one of his eyes swollen shut, his nose squint, dried blood under it, and there are bruises, so many bruises, but underneath the ruin, he's beautiful.

"I can see you." I stare at him, and the one eye that can open stares back at me. "What did they do to you, my love?" It's not me saying those words, at least I don't think it's me, it sounds like me, and it came from my mouth, but it wasn't me. "My sweet... Come, come to me." My arms open of their own accord, and Phil moves to me, presses himself against me, the cold of his too thin body seeping through my pyjamas.

"Scott?" He whispers, and I don't know what to do, but it seems my body, my mouth, everything else is fully aware what's expected in this situation, moving and acting without my input. My hands run up and down Phil's back, holding him tightly.

"Shh... I'm here, Phil... I'm here." Phil starts sobbing, as my fingers run through his hair. "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry."

"What happened?" Phil manages between sobs, and I watching my hands take a hold of his face, and feel the cold of Phil's skin on my lips as they press a kiss to his forehead.

"They killed me, that night, they killed me. I couldn't come to you, I wanted to, Phil... Believe me I wanted to, and I've been waiting outside, _desperate_ to get to you since then. I've been trying to get you for so long." My voice is thick with emotion, and I don't know what to make of this situation, I don't feel in charge of myself, and it's kind of unnerving.

"You're here now though." Phil whispers, and I can feel a smile on my face. "Don't leave me again. I was so scared. They... They _hurt_ me, Scott. I wanted it to be you the first time, I wanted to give y-"

"Shh... Phil, shh. What happened is over, you're safe now, my love." My lips are in Phil's hair, his cold seeping through my body. "You don't need to cling to this." I don't know what I mean, and it looks like Phil doesn't either, he staring at me with his one good eye. "Think of yourself how you are, not how you were." My voice tells Phil, and a slight smile spreads over his lips. The wounds on his face start to heal, his limbs start to look stronger, his hair looks healthier. "There, that's how you should look." I can feel the smile on my face getting bigger, and my body decides to stand, holding my arms out once more. Phil comes to closer, and it feels as though he fits my arms perfectly, my body seems to yearn to never let him go. I don't think I'm myself, I _know_ I'm not myself, and as my lips press against Phil's I find myself collapsing to the floor, staring up at a version of me that isn't me, kissing Phil. I suppose that's the ghost of Phil's Scott.

"We can go now?" Phil asks the other ghost, and ghost Scott nods in return, kissing Phil's forehead again.

"Thank you." Ghost Scott turns to me, and smiles. I don't know how to answer him, and it's strange looking at someone who looks exactly like me. I stare at them, Phil cuddled up close to his lover, a smile on his face. They look so happy, so perfectly content with each other. I suppose that's why Phil couldn't move on; he was waiting for his _Scott_ to rescue him.

"Hey, it's nothing... Though my English grades are gonna suffer." I shrug, and Phil laughs, smiling at me.

"It'll be okay... Something'll come along." He assures me, and they both fade away, the temperature in my room creeping up once more, until it's as if there never were any ghosts there at all.

The next few days I don't know what to do with myself. My room seems empty and lonely now that Phil's gone, my English grades are back to pre-Phil levels, and I had to tell the teacher my tutor had gone away. It's strange, but I miss my friend, even if he had been dead, Phil had been my friend, and it's not the same without him around.

I end up in the library three days before Christmas, hoping to tell the woman related to Phil's family that he'd moved on, that he had been waiting for his lover, and now that they're together and they've both moved on. So I took my homework and went to the library to tell her all this. I'm sitting struggling with an English assignment when I hear it, and I sit there in shock.

"I don't get why you've dragged me down here, Auntie." That voice, it's painfully familiar, and I look up expecting to see Phil, and I stare when I do. The boy with the old woman is the exact spitting image of Phil. Rose meets my eyes, and glances away awkwardly; turning to who I guess is her nephew.

"You need to research this English project." She mutters shortly, and her nephew glances over at me, an odd look on his face.

"Yeah... But it's not like I'm gonna fail English. It's not like its Math or anything." He calls to his aunt as she starts walking away.

"I'll get the books you need, Phil. Sit down. Make a start on that Math homework." Rose mutters, harshly. I'm not in the least bit surprised when it turns out this boy's name is Phil. He tosses a book bag on the table, and flops into a chair opposite me, staring at me.

"Do I know you?" I shake my head, and he frowns. "I'm _sure_ I know your face."

"Well, I'm damn handsome." I laugh, and he smirks at me. "You wanna trade, Phil?"

"Faces?" He asks looking mildly horrified, and I shake my head.

"That's Math in there right?" I ask him, and he narrows his eyes, but nods. "I'll do it, you do this." I point to the English assignment I've been working, and he grins.

"Yeah... Sounds like a fair deal to me... But, look, none of that Phil shit, alright." The boy with Phil's face smiles at me, and sticks his hand out. "The name's Punk."

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><p><em>Thank you to my dear <strong>AshJovillette, and <strong>**littleone 1389 **for __the reviews. :3_

_Up eighteenth we have **The Coventry Carol**- I like the miserable classic carols, what can I say?_

_Not much is set in stone for these fics - so if you'd like to fire me a song and pairing combo in a PM, I'll have a listen and see what I can come up with._

**_You can't give me an apple _****_for Christmas _****_like my students are already doing , but you can give me a review! ;)_**


	19. Let It Snow

_Warnings: Slash (Ambrose/Punk), (Colt/Punk), Minor Slash (Ambrose/Colt), (Colt/Ambrose/Punk), Mild Profanity, Fluff._

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><p>"Hey, Punk you in?" Dean calls into the little cabin, and frowns at the scene in front of him. He's expected to have Punk all to himself. He'd been expecting a nice weekend away just the two of them, not to have to deal with Punk's <em>other<em> lover. One for on the road, one for at home. It's an unfair situation, and one that favours Punk horribly, but it's hard not to spoil the man. If he's honest, it mostly works for Dean too. He gets all the pleasure and fun of sex with Punk, and none of the hassle of dealing with Punk's moods. That's left to the at home lover, one who's been there for longer than Dean can even comprehend being in a relationship. Years, and years, and years, so long that there's something almost psychic about them together, something that sets Dean's teeth on edge, and makes his fingers itchy. He'd rather he never had to cross Punk's spare's path ever again, and thankfully it's not often they are in the same place, but the head Dean can see over the back of the couch is decidedly that of Colt Cabana.

"Shh!" A sharp hiss from Cabana has Dean scowling and stomping over to the couch. "Sit down and be quiet." Cabana snaps quietly, and Dean takes a spot on the opposite end of the couch, glaring at the way Punk's laying fast asleep, his hand clenched in Cabana's shirt. He manages to be quiet and still for a little while, but soon enough he starts fidgeting. It's not good for Dean to be still. It's terrible for him to be quiet for too long. His mind starts whirring, starts thinking far too much, so he's always in constant motion to attempt to stop his brain from over-thinking everything. He's rather like a shark; the only time he'll be still is when he's dead. "Stop fucking fidgeting. You'll wake him up." Cabana sounds just as pissed off by Dean's presence as Dean is by his, and he has to wonder why both he and Cabana are there. He knows that Punk would _like_ them to get along, but Cabana's too god damn easy-going for Dean to handle. He likes people who are riled up by him, and whilst he riles Cabana up, it's not in a fun way; it's in an apathetic, disinterested way. Cabana's a nice guy, and whilst Dean's sure Cabana's a prickly asshole when he wants to be, he keeps it under wraps.

"What's wrong with him?" Dean asks. He suspects that this is all a charade, and that Punk's fine, playing possum to try and force him and Cabana to spend some _quality_ time together, but the tense little crease between his eyebrows, and white-knuckle grip on Cabana's shirt has Dean thinking that might not be the case.

"His knee's acting up... The cold's going for it." Cabana strokes a finger over Punk's forehead, and the crease between his brows eases up some, his death grip doesn't though. Dean frowns, and glances at Punk's knee. It'd been fucked for a while, and whilst he'd had surgery on it, it's still sore, and he's stuck hobbling around on crutches.

"He should have said so then..." Dean shakes his head as he looks down at Punk's sleeping face, his fingers itching to touch him, to see if Dean's touch is as soothing as he finds Cabana's to be.

"You know what he's like... You said you wanted to go hang out in a cabin halfway up a mountain and have Christmas monkey sex... So here he is." Cabana scoffs, and Dean glares at him, but he's not paying attention to anything but the sleeping Punk. "You're an idiot." He mutters, his attention clearly on Punk.

"Why are you here?" Dean mutters, feeling put out. He had wanted to have some good old Christmas fucking with Punk, and that's not going to happen with Cabana there, or with Punk sleeping to be honest.

"He fell asleep on me... You know how he is when he's sleeping." Cabana smiles down at Punk, stroking his cheek, a fond smile on his face, and Dean snorts. "I'll go when he wakes up." Cabana glances up at Dean, a smirk on his face. "Till then sit nice and quiet."

"You'll be fucking lucky. They closed the road after I got up here, ain't no way off this mountain till the snow stops." Dean scoffs, his tone heavy with bitter amusement. He's stuck with Cabana until the blizzard he'd narrowly avoided blows over, and there's no way of telling when that'll happen.

"You're fucking kidding me? I gotta work tomorrow." Cabana sounds as pissed as Dean feels, and there's a part of Dean that's unreasonably amused by Cabana's annoyance. It's nice to be able to give the asshole a taste of his own medicine. "Fucking weather." He snarls, and Punk makes a softly distraught noise."Hey... Shh... Punkers, stay asleep. It's okay." Dean doesn't watch Cabana fussing over Punk softly, doesn't want to see the gentle depth of their relationship. He knows about it, and it's enough to spur something close to jealousy in him as it is. He doesn't need to be feeding the green-eyed monster, because he's not looking for a _relationship_. He's especially not looking for a relationship with Punk. The sex is indescribable, their conversations are fascinating, their arguments as visceral and entertaining as any Dean could want, but he and Punk are too similar in too many ways to be a good match.

"Nope, sorry Cabana. You're stuck." Dean laughs, his tone on the wrong side of mocking, and Cabana glances over at him, a wry smile on his face.

"_Great_." He sighs frustrating colouring that little exhalation, and Punk makes another distressed noise, his grip on Cabana's shirt tightening some more. "Shh... No one's mad at you, nothing's wrong." He mutters, and Dean frowns, wondering what that little comment meant. "What?" Cabana's tone is light and friendly, and Dean twitches slightly, not sure what to do, but not willing to disturb Punk's rest so he figures he'll try sounding genial in return.

"_No one's mad at you_?" Dean asks, relieved when Punk is silent, his sleep peaceful. Cabana shakes his head, and Dean frowns. It was a strange comment, and it's piqued his interest, his mind starting to process information and piece together some interesting ideas. "Sometimes we share a bed... Not often cause I kick, but he has nightmares, like real _bad_ nightmare."

"After you fight? When you're still stomping around the room, muttering and cursing under your breath?" Cabana's voice might sound cheerful, but Dean can hear the accusations beneath that geniality, and he looks away, focussing on the TV that's playing something on Comedy Central. "He grew up in a shitty way... Just like you... Sleeping Punkers isn't as tough as the awake one. He gets... _Scared_." Dean glances over to see Cabana stroke a hand over Punk's shaved head, and he turns back to the TV, sick of the inept feelings Cabana inspires in him. There's no reason to feel jealous of Cabana. Dean's relationship with Punk is very different to Cabana's relationship with him, but there might be something to be envious of Punk for his relationship with Cabana. There's understanding, there's comfort, but they're things that Dean doesn't take, especially if they're offered to him. There's no way he'd every let anyone close enough to know why he kicks in his sleep if there's someone too close to him.

Eventually Dean tires of sitting as still and quiet as he can, and he goes to kitchen under the guise of making a sandwich. He'd not offered one to Cabana, and he'd not asked, it was almost like they were pretending the other didn't exist.

"Bana?" From the kitchen, Dean can hear Punk's voice, soft and scratchy from having been asleep for hours.

"Hey, Punkers. You awake now?" Cabana's always so damned happy to see Punk, even if he's been asleep on him for so long, there's always happiness, genuine happiness in his tone when he talks to Punk.

"Why are you still here?" Punk is blunt, always blunt, but there's fondness, happiness, emotions Dean's _sure_ he doesn't inspire in Punk. "Did Deano get delayed? Can't he come?" There's a sorrow in Punk's voice that he'd not expected, and Dean closes his eyes, not wanting to think too hard about the feelings in his chest.

"He's here... In the kitchen." Cabana laughs, and Dean can hear Punk joining in. Clearly, Punk has shared tales of Dean's lack of culinary skills with Cabana, and they're enjoying a laugh at his expense.

"How come-"

"Gerbil said the road was closed, I'm stuck till the blizzard passes." Cabana interrupts Punk, and Dean almost wants to storm into the living room and punch him. He _hates_ that fucking twee pet-name, hates how Cabana seems too fond of it.

"You know he hates being called Gerbil... Make nice with him, we're all here together. We should make the most of it." Something incredibly pleased creeps into Punk's voice. Dean snorts, finishing making his sandwich, and decides that he should at least make Punk one too, he'll be hungry for having just woken up.

"He looks like a gerbil with those wittle chubby cheeks and the fluffy-wuffy hair." Cabana laughs, and Dean scowls to himself, reconsidering the third sandwich he's preparing. "But... I guess, if it bugs him, I'll quit it. You're right... We're here together till I can go, so I'll try and keep out of the way." Cabana laughs, and Dean finishes the third sandwich. A truce on both sides, for the sake of Punk. It's depressing how Punk has two men completely wrapped around his finger.

"Here." Dean sets the plate of sandwiches down on the coffee table and takes one, handing it to Punk. He's changed positions, sitting up on the couch, pressed against Cabana's side, the foot of his bad leg resting on a cushion on the table. "These ones are yours, Punkin... No meat on them." Dean smiles at Punk, getting a soft grin back, and Punk takes a bite of the sandwich, his grin getting bigger.

"Good job, Deano." Punk leans over, and kisses Dean softly on the cheek, then turns to Cabana, who sighs, and stands.

"What you drinking, Ambrose?" He asks, and Punk shakes his head.

"Make a pot of tea. The stuff in the little baggy in the cabinet above the kettle." Punk leans against Dean, a contented smile spread over his lips, and Dean kisses his head staring at Cabana. It feels like he's issuing a challenge, but Cabana doesn't seem the least bit interested in Dean.

"Punkers, that stuff tastes like shi-"

"It's delicious and good for you! It'll stop you getting a cold. So go make it, and bring three cups." Punk's voice is final, and Cabana heads to the kitchen. Dean almost wants to laugh, but he knows how hard it is to deny Punk anything, the saddest thing is that Punk knows how hard he is to deny too. "Is this okay?" Punk turns to Dean, worry on his face, and Dean nods, his hand cupping Punk's face as he pulls him in for a quick peck of a kiss.

"It'd be better if it was just us, but there's no way off this mountain till the snow stops. It'll be fine, Punkin." Dean pecks Punk's lips again. Even if it isn't fine, it'll have to be endurable; because Cabana really is stuck until the snow eases up, and Dean's sure he can play nice for a while. If nothing else, it'll score him some brownie points with Punk. He always wants Dean and Cabana to play nice, and get along with each other. If he's honest, Dean thinks that's because Punk wants to be pampered by both of them, or maybe he wants a threesome, which has some appeal. It'd be incredible to see Punk's tight body stretched to breaking point around two cocks, to hear him gasping and moaning, filled to the brim, and pinned between two other bodies. Whilst Dean might be up for that, he's not keen on the idea of the other cock rubbing against his being Cabana's for reasons Dean's not overly invested in exploring.

"You're sure? I know you two don't exactly see eye to eye on a lot of things." Punk smiles awkwardly, and Dean nods, but isn't sure he really agrees. He has no idea if he thinks like Cabana, has no idea if their thoughts really do clash; he just knows the asshole winds him up with his steadfast refusal to act how Dean thinks he should.

"We agree where it's important." Cabana sets the teapot down, and sits on the other end of the couch, a smile on his face, and a sandwich in his hand.

"Oh?" Punk pulls an odd face, that has Dean smirking, and Cabana nods, but doesn't elaborate, instead eating his sandwich. "You gonna tell me what you two actually _agree_ on is or not?" Punk pokes at Cabana's side, and Dean leans over, to grab a sandwich, concentrating on the mundane task of eating. It's better than being annoyed by the relationship between Punk and Cabana. With Dean Punk is all sexy, and sullen, bordering manically bored, looking for a distraction, and Dean's more than happy to provide one. It doesn't matter if that distraction is a rambling conversation, a bitter argument, or glorious sex, it's a distraction for them both, and they _both_ enjoy it. Yet, with Cabana Punk's different. There's a sweetness, a _playfulness_ that Dean's never seen outside of Cabana's presence, and he's a _little_ jealous of that.

"That this tea tastes like shit." Dean mutters, and Cabana barks a laugh. Punk turns to Dean looking indignant, and Dean rubs the stubble on top of Punk's head. "But we drink it, because it keeps you happy."

"On that note." Cabana hands first Punk, then Dean a cup of the pungent tea, and sips at his own. "Hmm... Medicinal." He smirks at Punk, getting an elbow to the ribs for it.

"It's good." Punk mutters, sipping at the tea, a smile on his face. Dean's not sure how he can enjoy the damn stuff, because it tastes terrible, but Punk seems to like it, and like Dean said, both he and Cabana will drink it for Punk. "You two have no taste in beverages... I mean _you_ drink beer." Punk bumps his shoulder against Dean's, wearing an indulgent smile on his lips. They've never argued over Dean's lifestyle, for all the preaching Punk did when he was playing the S.E.S. leader, he's not all that _preachy_ in real life. "And this one... It's even worse." He sighs dramatically, turning to look at Dean earnestly. "He..." Punk sighs again, and Dean wraps an arm around him, gently patting his back.

"I know... It's okay... You just have to remember that just because someone likes coke; it doesn't make them a bad person." Dean consoles Punk in his most serious voice, and Cabana laughs, leaning over to press a kiss to Punk's shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Punkers." He sounds contrite, but the smirk on his face contradicts that eloquently. "I like coke... What can I say?" He chuckles, and Punk turns to him. With the back of his head turned to him, Dean can't see what expression Punk's wearing, but it makes Cabana laugh and kiss him. A kiss that escalates far more than Dean's happy playing party to, but there's nothing much he can do, his arm is still around Punk, trapped awkwardly between Punk and the back of the couch.

"Dick." Punk mutters, once he and Cabana stop kissing, snuggling up to Dean, and all Cabana does is laugh, going back to eating his sandwich.

"You love me." Cabana sounds smug, and Dean wants to be offended by the statement, but he knows the truth of it, Punk loves Cabana, and Dean's a distraction. He's quite happy being a distraction, but in that moment, he's _slightly_ jealous.

"Pff... You're a dick." Punk snorts, and Cabana laughs again.

"You love that too." He smirks, and Punk snuggles up to Dean some more, juggling his teacup, and pulling Dean's arm around himself more.

"Love Deano's dick more than yours." Punk smirks over at Cabana, and this time Dean feels a hint of pride, even if it's a groundless statement it makes him strangely happy to hear it.

"I'm sure it's a great dick, Punkers." Cabana says mildly, and there's a sting of annoyance in Dean. It's frustrating how difficult it is to rile Cabana up, and it's usually all Dean wants to do, to ruffle the feathers of a man so very laidback. Punk knows Cabana inside and out, and yet even he has a hard time winding up Cabana.

"This is all getting too fucking weird, man." Dean mutters, wanting to change the subject from his cock. As much as Dean likes his cock, he's not comfortable with discussing it with Cabana present.

"At least we're agree, Ambrose." Cabana finishes his tea with a grimace, and stands, tossing Dean the remote. "Find something to watch, unless you two are gonna go... Uh... Well, I _know_ you came here for a reason, and I've gotta call this promoter, and get on with some shit." He looks uncomfortable, and Punk glances at Dean then at Cabana, an odd look on his face. Dean likes fucking Punk, and as much as he wants to go do what Cabana implied, he _thinks_ it'd be too weird with Cabana in the cabin, so he shakes his head.

"We'll find something to watch." Dean presses the button for the TV Guide, and Punk snuggles up happily to him.

"I really do need to edit the podcast... Won't hear a thing." Cabana calls from the door that separates the living room from bedroom.

"We'll find something good." Punk calls back, and Cabana sighs, the bedroom door closing behind him. "You're sure?" Punk turns to Dean. "Bana'll be busy for a while, and we don't really do this sort of thing... I mean not that I don't want to, but you don't seem like the cuddling on the couch type."

"What type am I? The fucking a guy while his boyfriend is another room type?" Dean knows he sounded too harsh when Punk pulls away from him, a tense set to his shoulders.

"I..." Punk sighs, and seems to deflate quickly though, the tension seeping from his shoulders. "I'm sorry, that was _crass_, but you know..." Punk sighs, and Dean reaches out to him, stroking his shoulder. "What am I to you, Deano?" Dean stares at Punk, suddenly far more uncomfortable than he's been in a _long_ time. "You say that Bana's my boyfriend easily enough, but what are you?"

"A fuck?" Dean mutters, and Punk laughs, shaking his head. "What? Punk you're _with_ Cabana."

"I'm with you, aren't I?" Punk leans over to pour some more tea, but manages to tweak his knee, making him start swearing profusely, his eyes screwed up in pain.

"Shh..." Dean's fingers are stroking over Punk's furrowed brow before he's even thought of it. "I'll pour." He pours three cups of tea, once more without thought, and takes one to the bedroom, opening the door, and setting it on the desk by the busy looking Cabana. "Here... More tea."

"Huh? Uh... Thanks... Look, I've been thinking, and I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply that there's nothing between you and Punkers than sex... It's just... Yeah, no, I'm sorry." Cabana holds his hand out, and Dean stares at it for a few seconds before he accepts it.

"It's okay..." Dean glances at the open door, making a quick decision, and sits on the end of the bed. "What do you think Punk and me are?" He says, almost laughing at the look of utter confusion that crosses Cabana's face. He knows that this isn't the sort of conversation two people who dislike each other so much should have, but Cabana knows Punk, so his thoughts will be useful in helping Dean process Punk's statement. _I'm with you, aren't I? _Isn't something Dean thinks he can understand alone.

"_Are_? Humans? In a relationship? I dunno..." Cabana sips at his tea, a scowl crossing his face. "The things we do for that man, huh?" He laughs, and Dean nods, standing. "What do you think about Punkers and me?"

"You're in love." Dean says simply, and Cabana smiles slightly.

"You and him?" Cabana leans back in the chair, an appraising look on his face, and Dean fidgets, feeling overly scrutinised.

"Falling." Dean answers as honestly as possible. "I'm not sure where to, but it's like... There's nothing under my feet with him. It might be that we're falling to something good, it might be something bad... I don't fucking know."

"Yeah... Love's like that." Cabana smiles softly, and Dean stares at him. "What?"

"_Love_?" Dean asks, he's pretty sure love isn't where he and Punk are going to end up, hate and any of its unpleasant derivatives perhaps, but not love, it'll be a continuation of the lust they feel for each other at most.

"You don't see it do you? But how could you, I guess." Cabana laughs, and Dean frown at him. "Don't worry, it'll all work out. Now go keep our man company, he'll be getting bored, and a bored- Hello Punkers." Cabana breaks off what he was going to say when there's the sound of crutches, and swearing from behind Dean.

"I was worried you two were killing each other, but instead here you are having a chat." Punk grins, and Dean smiles at him, his hand reaching out to cup Punk's cheek.

"Yeah... Chatting." Dean smiles slightly, and Cabana laughs, turning back to his laptop.

"Take yourselves outta here. I got work to do!" It's clearly supposed to be an intimidating tone that Cabana's using but really it's just kind of amused, and a little exasperated.

"Sir." Dean salutes vaguely, earning an amused laugh from Cabana, and a strange smile from Punk. "C'mon Hop-Along, you heard the man, to the couch with us, I'm sure there was some awesome B-Movie on."

Once they're back on the couch, Punk snuggles up to Dean, his leg back on the table, and Dean sits stroking Punk's shoulder. The B-Movie is as wonderfully terrible as Dean had thought it would be, and Punk seems far more content than Dean's ever seen him when it's just them together.

"You and Bana seem to be getting on better." Punk's voice is quiet, and Dean nods, kissing Punk's head.

"Yeah... We _talked_... I... Right now you're with me, when he's here you'll be with him though." Dean thinks he sounds depressed about that, and Punk turns to him.

"When he's here, I'll be with you both." Punk's wearing an odd confused expression. "I love Bana, but I... Dean, when we first had sex, that's alls it was. Sex, but then... Things _changed_, and I didn't mean for them to, but they did. You're important to me, and I don't understand why cause I never thought I'd fall in love once, nevermind twice, and be in love with two people at the same time." Punk laughs, and Dean tenses. Punk's hand rests on his cheek. "It scares me too, Deano... Fucking terrifies me more than I can say... _Love_... It's not comfortable for either of us, but I want to make this work. I want you both."

"Punk... I don't know. I don't even know how I feel about you." Dean sighs, he wants to get up, wants to get away, but a quick glance out the window shows the snow still falling in a solid wall of swirling white.

"We can be scared for a while... It's okay." Punk nods, kissing Dean. It's been far too long since Dean's kissed Punk properly, those little pecks don't count not really. He never thinks he misses the way Punk tastes, the way his tongue feels sliding against Dean's own until he kisses him again, and he realises that the weird tense feeling in his gut is pining for Punk.

"What about Cabana?" Dean rests his forehead against Punk's, closing his eyes, and taking in the feeling of Punk's warmth. "He can't be alright with sharing you Punkin... He _loves_ you."

"Oh my god... What the fuck are you two watching?" Cabana's voice interrupts the moment, and Punk laughs, pecking Dean's lips softly once more.

"_He loves me... And he's very good at stopping people from being scared, good at making them feel safe_." Punk whispers, and Dean stares at him in confusion. "Snuggle me." Punk demands of Cabana once he's sat down. "This whole side is freezing cold." He waves the arm on the side Dean's not pressed against, and Cabana laughs. "I _demand_ snuggles from both sides." Punk looks incredibly smug when Cabana's arm drapes over the back of the couch, and he presses himself to Punk's other side.

"We're watching something better... I'm not sitting through more weird fucking black and white monster movies... I'll indulge you at Halloween, but not now." Cabana kisses the side of Punk's head, and Dean laughs. He knows that Punk will play the invalid card, and Cabana will cave to him.

"He's hurt, Cabana. You know you're gonna do what he wants, so just accept it, and enjoy this shit." Dean laughs again, and Cabana's hand smacks Dean's shoulder, but his fingers don't withdraw, they stay resting on Dean, warm and something Dean's keenly _aware_ of.

"It's Christmas... You people should be watching Christmas movies..." Dean's surprised to find he doesn't need to fidget under the gentle strokes Cabana gives his shoulder as he talks. It's strangely comforting, and that almost makes him want to fidget anyway. Comfort isn't something Dean needs or wants. He's happy in his discomfort.

"Pretty sure I saw the Grinch on one of the other stations." Dean mutters, shifting closer to Punk, wrapping his arm around his waist a little tighter, in turn moving him a little closer to Cabana's fingers. Not that that was the goal, but it's possibly not a bad thing to be comforted a little.

They spend the rest of the night watching TV. Dean discovering that Punk and Cabana are utterly incapable of being quiet through movies, which leads to Punk complaining that Cabana's talking too much and he's trying to watch the movie, but then being the first to make a comment himself. Their running commentary reminds Dean of Mystery Science Theatre three thousand, and he finds himself laughing at their ridiculousness far more than he'd expected. There's a brief break to cook and eat, with Punk shouting instructions from the living room, and Dean finding himself _enjoying_ Cabana's company. They make a surprisingly good team in the kitchen, managing to turn out food that meets Punk's exacting standards. The night progresses, and by the time they should be going to bed, Dean's carefully ignoring the fact that he's resting his head on Punk's shoulder, letting Cabana run his fingers through his hair slowly. When Punk's yawns start getting more regular, Cabana tries to move away, only to realise that he's been backed into the corner of the couch.

"C'mon... Bed." He gently shoves at Punk, and Dean's a bit annoyed that the petting of his hair has stopped. "I'll sleep here, you pair have the bed."

"It's plenty big enough." Dean speaks before he's thought about it, and Cabana stares at him over a yawning Punk.

"I call middle." Punk grins, scooting forward and grabbing his crutches from the floor. He hobbles off to the bathroom, and Cabana's still staring at Dean, confusion on his face.

"It is big enough, and Punk seems pretty happy to be in the middle." Dean shrugs, and Cabana nods vaguely.

"Go make sure he's not managed to fall in the toilet, I'll tidy up here." He stands, gathering up the dirty cups that are sitting on the coffee table. Dean nods, and goes along to the bathroom, opening the door, and perching on the edge of the bath, watching Punk brushing his teeth.

"You sure you don't mind sharing a bed, Deano?" Punk asks after a little while, and its then that Dean realises he'd been staring at Punk's frothy mouthed reflection, his mind whirring about how nice it'd been to be petted, whilst he kept Punk warm, how it'd been like being looked after whilst looking after someone. The feeling had appealed to Dean in a way he can't quite process. He's never wanted to be looked after, always wanted to prove he can take care of someone, and when it comes to Punk, he can look after him sexually more than well enough, but tonight was different. Tonight, Dean knows he looked after Punk, but it was in a totally different way, and he feels _good_ about it.

"You're beautiful." Dean covers, and Punk looks at him dubiously as he stands, not will to get into a conversation about how nice it was to have Cabana sit petting his hair most of the night, or how nice it was to just be calm and still with both Punk and Cabana.

"You're weird." Punk mutters, rinsing his mouth and toothbrush. "You wanna brush your teeth or leave, cause I'm taking a piss." Punk hobbles to the toilet, and Dean grabs the one toothbrush that's still in its packaging. Punk knows him well enough to know that toothbrushes are the one thing that Dean always forgets to bring.

"I've seen your cock plenty of times Punkin... Piss away." Dean laughs, and starts brushing his teeth. "Don't forget to wash your hands, Punkin... Cabana'll be pissed if you don't."

"How'd you know that?" Cabana's voice comes from the other side of the door, and Dean laughs.

"Cause you chased him in here to check up on me, while you made sure there's no trip hazards on the way to bed, and washed the dishes... You're a mother hen, Bana." Punk's starts washing his hands in the sink, and Dean chuckles at the indignant snort Cabana makes.

"I'm setting trip hazards up for you as we speak." He mutters, and Dean ushers Punk out of the bathroom.

"Want me to carry you just in case, Punkin?" Dean laughs, and Punk turns, kissing him softly.

"Nah... I'll be alright." He moves slowly, kissing Cabana on the way past, and Dean isn't sure what the protocol here should be, he meets Cabana's eyes awkwardly, and Cabana pats him on the shoulder.

"I won't be long, kill the lights if you want." He says as he closes the bathroom door.

Punk's already in bed, and Dean stands considering which side he should take. He's not a big cuddler when he's asleep. He kicks for a start, and being touched whilst he's sleeping usually wakes him up, so he's not sure how this is going to work. The more he thinks on it, the more Dean thinks he should have slept on the couch.

"You coming to bed, Deano?" Punk asks, sitting up awkwardly. Dean rubs the back of his neck, and comes closer to the bed. "What is it?" Punk asks holding a hand out to Dean, concern on his face.

"Not sure which side..." Dean laughs, and Punk snorts, patting the left side of the bed. "This one?"

"Bana likes to be closest to the door, so he can be all macho if a burglar comes in." Punk laughs, and Dean gets under the blankets on the left of Punk. "You gonna turn your back on me like normal?" Punk asks, and Dean looks at him, watching as he settles down, thinking there's more than a hint of sorrow in his eyes. It's not something they've talked about, and Dean always thought Punk didn't much mind, but apparently he was wrong.

"I don't like being touched in my sleep, Punkin." Dean mutters. It's a point of contention between them, Dean kicks anyone who gets too close, and Punk gravitates to, and wraps himself around the warmest thing in his bed. They don't share a bed for a very good reason, and Dean can only hope that Cabana is warmer than he is to spare Punk more bruises on his shins.

"You all settled?" Cabana appears suddenly, and seems contented that the silence that greets him is a yes, so he kills the lights, and settles into the bed on his back. "C'mere then." Dean, out of the corner of his eye, can see Punk immediately go to Cabana, his head on his chest, Cabana's arms wrapped around him tightly. "You gonna be okay over there?" He looks over the top of Punk's head, concern in his eyes, and Dean nods.

"I kick." Dean turns his back to them, and closes his eyes. He can feel the warmth of Punk and Cabana behind him, and he knows it'll take him a long time to fall asleep.

It's strange waking up and feeling safe, but that's exactly how Dean feels that morning. He's still asleep enough to not question it, still asleep enough to enjoy the feeling of being held. It's then that it dawns on him that's what's going on. There's a strong arm around his shoulders, a solid warm chest under his head, and the feeling of someone's breath in his hair, another's on his face. He opens his eyes and stares straight into Punk's, the dim light of early morning just enough to pick out the deep green of Punk's eyes.

"_Shh... You'll wake Bana up_." He whispers, and Dean stares at him. Punk looks completely content, his hand holding Dean's, his cheek resting on the other side of Cabana's chest, the other of Cabana's arms wrapped around him tightly. "_You were having a nightmare... Bana's good at making people feel safe._" Punk smiles, and presses a little kiss to Cabana's chest. Dean's still just staring, waiting for something to jolt him out of bed, but there's nothing. All he feels is a comfortable malaise that's settled over him, something warm and soft, something _safe_.

"_Why the fuck is he cuddling me_?" Dean gets that he had a nightmare, he often does, he also kicks like a mule in his sleep, and none of this explains why he's snuggled up with Cabana, feeling all warm and cosily contented.

"_I told you, Bana's good at making you feel safe... And you do, don't you?_" He'd dwelled on what Punk had said, but had ignored it as something random Punk said, yet he does feel _safe_. Dean stares at Punk, and he yawns, looking impossibly tired. "_Go back to sleep_." He closes his eyes, and Dean lies there staring at Punk's face, wanting him to open his eyes and say something else, but he doesn't, he's fallen back asleep. In all the time Dean's known Punk well enough to know his sleeping habits, he's never seen him just go back to sleep.

"_Gerbil... Either get out of bed or go back to sleep, cause I'm not gonna be happy if I have to be awake this early_." Cabana sounds pissed, but mostly still asleep, and Dean yawns, moving to make himself more comfortable, but definitely not snuggling because he does not snuggle Cabana. For all he was surprised by how quickly Punk fell asleep, it's more of a surprise to Dean how fast he drifts off once more.

"Afternoon." Punk's voice wakes him up, and Dean is once more surprised to find himself lying against Cabana, though this time there's fingers running through his hair again. Dean frowns, trying to hide against Cabana's chest from the bright sunshine that's filled the room, not willing to give up the gentle petting of his hair just yet.

"He's still tired, Punkers... Let him sleep." Cabana's voice rumbles beneath Dean's ear, and he's very much inclined to agree. He _is_ tired, and he's comfortable. Punk can get out of bed if he wants, but Dean isn't moving, and neither is Cabana. Once Dean's feeling more rested, then he'll go back to disliking Punk's other lover, or at least back to the strange truce they made last night, but for now Cabana's being Dean's warm and comfy pillow. The other side of the bed dips, and Dean can hear Punk laughing softly, leaning over him, and kissing Dean's temple.

"Alright lazy bones, you can sleep more. Me and Bana'll watch TV in bed. G'night, Deano." There's another kiss to Dean's hair, and the fingers that had been running through it stop briefly, Cabana's hand moving down to rub over Dean's arm before returning to his hair. "_See... I told you he needed snuggling._" Punk's voice is a low whisper, and Dean, if he weren't so warmly content would protest this. From beneath his ear, there's a low rumble of laughter, and Dean'd like to ignore how that noise makes heat pool in his groin. Cabana is not someone Dean's attracted to, and it's staying that way. _Hopefully _at least, because until last night he'd not thought he'd want to be petted, but if Colt wants to volunteer to pet Dean's hair on a regular basis he'd not complain.

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><p><em>Thank you to my dear <strong>AshJovillette, <strong>_**johncenapunkjericholic,**_** and ****littleone 1389 **for __the reviews. :3_

_Up nineteenth we have **Let It Snow **- Yeah... This idea amused me, and I've got the great luck of being sick as a dog on New Year's Eve... Hot water, and my dog from company this year. Happy Hogmanay!_

_Not much is set in stone for these fics - so if you'd like to fire me a song and pairing combo in a PM, I'll have a listen and see what I can come up with._

**_You can't give me an apple _****_for Christmas _****_like my students are already doing , but you can give me a review! ;)_**


	20. Auld Lang Syne

_Warnings: 1st Person Cena POV, Slash (Cena/Punk),__ Profanity, Domestic Abuse, **Dark**Cena._

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><p>Relationships start because of a need, a deficiency in ourselves that we seek to fill with another person. We convince ourselves that this one person is the one thing that our lives need to make us whole, and enter into a <em>relationship<em>.

There is no such thing as a healthy relationship. They are _all_ co-dependent in one way or another. In a long lasting relationship, the deficiencies that each party has balance, and are never addressed by either side, the flaws stay equal, and the relationship continues. Short-term relationships are characterised by being between two people who are prone to self-evolution, or self-devolution. One or both parties in the relationship changes, their deficiencies change, so the _relationship_ is no longer beneficial, and it is dissolved.

Then there are relationships like mine. Relationships that one party wants out of because there is no reason to stay, and the other party wants to be the reason to stay. The other party is not reason enough to stay. The other party is_ never_ reason enough to stay.

This relationship had run its course. It had ran its course months before I started to put my plan into action, but I'm a fool. I will admit that, fully and completely, I am a fool. I wanted him to stay, and he wanted out. I wanted to keep him, he wanted to be free. The harder I clung, the more he wanted to leave me, so I held him back even more. It was getting bad, I knew it is, but I couldn't let him go. My deficiencies were, and are, addressed by him. He needs to be protected. He needs to be cared for. He needs to be loved. In turn, I need to protect, I need to care, I need to love. I _need_ him, and he needs me. Only he changed his mind about that, so I changed it back.

Relationships like mine start harmlessly enough, a word here or there. It's nothing too much, nothing too out of place, nothing too obvious, but that's just the start. He'd complain that he was too fat, and instead of disagreeing, I'd chuckle. In the beginning, he took it as me laughing at his complaining; now it has him refusing food for weeks. In the beginning, it was an insult delivered under the guise of a joke, but as it progressed, the jokes became less joking and more pointed insults, until we got to where we are now, where I can say the cruellest, most hateful things to him, and he'll apologise to me for whatever small infraction he's caused. Little things snowball with people like him; all they need is that first little push off the edge, and then things spiral. He barely breathes without looking for permission, barely blinks without my approval. It took time, but I cultivated a deficiency for my approval in him, and reap the rewards of it daily.

Words are not always enough to keep someone like him in check. There are other steps to keep the other party though. Fucking is a useful tool in every relationship. The phrase _making love_ is as much a fallacy as the concept of love itself. Love is a set of chemical reactions in the brain, and _making love_ is fucking. Fucking releases endorphins, in short fucking feels good, when done right. At first, I always made sure to do it right. He is a creature of romance, and sweet nothings. He likes the idea of being held in front of a roaring fire, while the snowstorm rages outside. He likes the idea of _making love_ on a bed covered in rose petals. He likes the idea of lying gazing at the stars, and imagining forever written in them. He doesn't realise that you get too hot in front of fires, and rug burn is a bitch. He doesn't realise that rose petals get crushed, stain the sheets, and lead to a ridiculously high hotel bill. He doesn't realise that the stars are already dead, and all we see are ghosts. Well, what he didn't really realise was that I took romance from him, one of many things I took from him. In the beginning, I gave him the romance he craved, candlelit dinners, roaring fires, soft beds, gentle caresses, stopping to make sure he was okay, letting him come, and over time this faded away. The first time it was too rough, I'd moved too fast, and scared him off. A quick brutal fuck backstage, a thin drywall between us and everyone else, my own pleasure my only objective, and he pulled away from me. It was frustrating, but I wooed him back. He's the type of creature that needs to be wooed with gentle words, and soft touches. For a time it was back to the illusion of romance, but the second time, I fucked him ill prepared, and with only concern for myself, I had him where I needed him. The second time, he lain on the bed, his face turned away in shame, his breathing rough and ragged. I'd lain behind him, staring at his back. There'd been concern in me, _worry_ that I'd pushed too hard, and too fast once more, but this time, he'd fallen asleep without a word. After that romance died. I fucked him whenever and however I pleased. He never complained, the words I'd been whispering into his ear had taken hold. _Worthless_, _useless_, _only good for a fuck_. Self-confidence was the poison that would take him from me, and through my words, and my actions, I made sure to destroy his considerable well of it.

To create the perfect other party, you need to invest time, and I invested a great deal of time and effort into him, breaking and reforming him into the perfect complement to my deficiencies by making his own crave what I could give him.

For a time things were perfect, but then they conceded to giving him time to heal from injury. I had always pushed them to deny him this. Time away from me was time spent with those who would undo my hard work. Time away from me was time spent with the people I expressly forbade him from talking to. Time away from me was dangerous to the stability of our relationship. I tried to ensure that he didn't slip from my grasp, but he did manage to find something of who he was in our time apart. When he came back, he had made unauthorised changes to his appearance, and I feared for my hard work. I'd never hit him before. I'd never believed that violence would control him the way words and fucking did, but the first night he was back, I took him home, and punched him in the mouth, right where that little loop of metal should have been. He'd stared up at me from the floor, his eyes wide, and in me I knew I'd found another deficiency that he called to. I felt the need to dominate him more than ever. I felt the need to foster vulnerability and fragility in him by having him cower before me.

Vulnerability is something he wears beautifully, and like taking romance from him, like having him apologise for my insults, it took time to get him to cower from my fists. When I'd started introducing this new deficiency, I had no idea that my time would be so short. It was mere months before something else started troubling him. Over the course of our relationship, I've never worried about him. I've worried about what he might do, but never about _him_. It was a surprise the first time I stood over him, watching him dry heaving, his body trembling that I was concerned for what might happened to him. What was a greater surprise was that when he turned to me, his eyes watering, and his skin so pale it was green, looking for _comfort_ I offered it. This was not the vulnerability I had wanted in him, but he _was_ vulnerable, he was frail, and it called to me. With this vulnerability, I had him relying on me so very much, and I revelled in it. Every step he took, every match he competed in, they all hurt him. He was so delicate, so close to destruction, and I _adored_ him for it.

His will to survive is not something to be under-estimated though. January twenty-fourteen. My life changed that day after the Rumble. That day he did something that when I came home to find him waiting for me, I beat him for it; I beat him without concern for bruises, because there would be no one to see them. He had left the WWE. He was tired, too broken, too burnout for them, but just right for me.

My private physician treated him for what had been ailing him. There had been a moment of horror when the doctor told me that he could have, and should have, died. I didn't want to think of the investment I would have to make in forming another to be as perfect for me as he is. I told him to remain in my home, and he did without question. I've invested a lot of time into getting him like this, I don't want interference from the people he still considers friends ruining him. He might have walked out on the WWE, but I've made sure that there's one thing there he can never leave behind. One thing that will always have a hold of him, because my deficiencies cry out for him, because Superman needs his Batman, because John Cena needs CM Punk.

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><p><em>Thank you to my dear <strong>Rebellecherry, <strong>**AshJovillette, **_**littleone 1389,**_** and **_**johncenapunkjericholic**_for __the reviews. :3_

_Up twentieth we have **Auld Lang Syne**- I think I enjoy a more dark, vindictive side of Cena... It's more fun to write than shiny happy Cena... _

_Not much is set in stone for these fics - so if you'd like to fire me a song and pairing combo in a PM, I'll have a listen and see what I can come up with._

**_Happy New Year! Thank you to everyone who's reviewed, faved and followed my stories over the last year! Your opinions and thoughts are deeply appreciated, and more than welcomed! If you'd like to review please do! It literally does make my day when I get a review. :3_**


	21. The Waltz of the Snowflakes

_Warnings: Slash (Reigns/Ambrose/Rollins/Punk), __Smut,__ Profanity, AU._

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><p>"Where the hell are they?" Roman sounds as annoyed as he stands behind Seth, even without looking Seth knows that he'll be standing awkwardly at attention, his hands at his sides, scanning the room, trying to spot the third member of their group, and their client, a man named Punk.<p>

"Probably fucking in a bathroom somewheres." Seth shrugs, and Roman snorts. It's probably true, and that's probably what's got Roman's nose out of joint. Dean is usually more professional than this, but there's something about this new client that seems to have enamoured their colleague. Seth's never seen Dean like this over someone, and whilst on one hand it's hilarious, on the other it puts his relationship with Roman and Seth in jeopardy. They've been together for years, both professionally, and personally, nothing gets between them, nothing interferes with their relationship. Nothing _but_ this new client. It's not worrying Seth yet, he has faith that once Dean fucks this guy enough he'll get bored, after all why settle for one flavour when you could have two, but Roman is concerned. He's a creature of habit, he's possessive, and to an extent controlling. Whilst Seth adores the protective possessive side of Roman, Dean tends to rail against it, he wants to be more in control, or at least wants more of an illusion of control. Dean doesn't do in charge all that well, and whilst Roman enjoys the role of leader, the real person who's in charge is Seth. He's the brains of the group, the one who makes the connections, who negotiates the deals, who makes the peace when the other two are squabbling and fighting too much to make it all work out.

"We need rid of this client." Roman grumbles, glaring out at the milling crowd of people. There's a part of Seth that agrees, but Punk isn't their client, his Sugar Daddy is, and that creepy old man pays them a lot of money to keep an eye on Punk. Some rich old businessman who wants his little bit on the side taken care of in every possible way. Seth knows that there are cameras all over the lavish apartment Punk lives in, he knows that every whim Punk has his Sugar Daddy is inclined to indulge. Yet, Punk lives frugally, he doesn't ask for things, he seems more inclined to ignore the fact that he lives in a ridiculously expensive part of town in an apartment that's far too big for four people, nevermind the one it was bought for. He seems to try and block out that he's a pretty bird in a gilded cage.

"He pays good money." Seth shrugs, and Roman snorts again, fidgeting beside him. "Look, I know you don't like Dean spending so much time with him, but Punk's an okay guy... Maybe get to know him, hmm?" Seth offers, and Roman sighs, his eyes still running over the crowd of people.

"There they are." Roman starts walking forward, and Seth snags another glass of champagne from the table they were standing beside, following along behind Roman. "Where the hell were you?" He growls at Dean, and Punk turns away, more interested in anything other than his bodyguards squabbling again. Seth frowns, looking between the quietly snarling Dean and Roman, and Punk, who's staring out at the rest of the party, looking miserable.

"Hey... Wanna go mingle?" Seth asks, smiling hopefully, and Punk shakes his head, a tense look crossing his face.

"I wanna _go_, but you know... Gotta be the gracious host." Punk sighs, and a couple approach him, shaking his hand and exchanging pleasantries. Seth sticks close to his side as Punk moves through the Christmas Eve party, shaking hands, and accepting compliments. He's charming and gracious, but whenever Seth catches his eye, he looks miserable and bored.

"Philip." A loud voice sounds, and Punk meets Seth's eye briefly, before turning to the Sugar Daddy, a plastered on grin on his face.

"Hello. Where _have_ you been?" It's impressive how fast Punk makes the change to the person that his Sugar Daddy thinks he is, from the scruffy odd comic book writer Seth knows him as, to this curiously coy creature hanging off the old man's arm.

"Mingling... Just like you, my pet. Where are the other two?" The old man turns to Seth, and he almost panics. Roman and Dean are still probably arguing where he left them.

"They're looking around... Making sure we're all safe." Punk lies smoothly, and Seth nods. The old man smiles, and pecks Punk on the lips.

"C'mon then... Let me show you off some more."

Seth follows along behind for a long time, feeling boredom creeping in. Dean and Roman had caught up to them maybe five minutes after he'd started escorting both Punk and the old man, the heavy air of a yet to confirmed truce between them. Once they get back to Punk's apartment, there'll be a proper making up, unless Dean chooses to sleep in Punk's bed again. The more Seth thinks on it, the more worried he is about the depth of Dean's feelings towards their charge. Punk's not Seth's type, and in all honesty he'd not thought Punk was Dean's type either, but there's something there, something that keeps Dean's attention for than anyone else, more than even Seth and Roman.

"Gentlemen, Philip will be spending the night with me. My people will return him to your care in the morning." The old man barely spares a glance for them as he ushers Punk out of the ballroom once the party's over. Dean is fuming, Seth can feel his rage, and Roman even seems putout, but Seth thinks that's probably more related to the obvious anger Dean's feeling than any real concern for Punk.

"I _hate_ that fucking asshole." Dean snarls as he gets in the car, opting to take the back seat, sprawling across it. Seth takes shotgun, leaving Roman to drive, and he glances into the rear view mirror to watch Dean staring intently down at his phone.

"He pays us well to look after his whore." Roman says mildly, and Dean growls, springing forward, his face set in an ugly scowl.

"Punk is not a whore." His tone is icy, and Seth touches his shoulder gently, trying to placate his temper and calm him down enough to let Roman get them home.

"Maybe it's time we start looking for a new client." Seth turns in his chair, pushing Dean back. "You have... _Something_ with this one and we can't have that compromise us. Come the new year we'll move on." Seth glances over Roman, and he nods, looking relieved.

"Leave? Guys..." Dean sighs, and Seth glances at the rear view mirror, seeing Dean look down at his phone again, sending a message with a soft smile that gets bigger when a reply comes to him.

"Your fucking him is a conflict of interest. We're paid to protect his ass, not fuck it." Roman snarls, and Dean looks up, his eyes filled with some kind of wounded look, and Seth frowns over at Roman. He thinks they may need to talk about this some more, because Dean is clearly more invested in Punk than Roman thinks. The rest of the ride is silent, Dean leaving them alone as soon as they're in Punk's apartment, going somewhere else, and Seth turns to Roman.

"He cares about him... He might have even convinced himself he's in love with him. You can't just belittle what he feels because you don't like it." Seth folds his arms, and Roman glances away, shifting from foot to foot, looking horribly uncomfortable.

"I don't like it, Seth. It fucks with us... And we _work_." He sighs, and Seth nods, touching Roman's shoulder gently, before moving his hand to draw him down for a slow kiss.

"We three do work well enough, but Dean is interested in Punk... And he is kind of pretty..." Seth smirks, and Roman stares at him. "What he is... He's got great legs if nothing else." Seth shrugs, and Roman shakes his head, smirk on his lips.

"Nice ass too." He laughs, and leans down to kiss Seth once more. "Dean's feelings though... It's not like him to get so attached."

"It's not but maybe that's a good thing. We know what he's like, we _know_ he wouldn't do something to hurt us, so maybe we should cut him a little slack here, and let him have this _thing_ with Punk, Maybe even have a shot at that nice little ass too, hmm?" Seth smiles, and Roman frowns at him briefly before an indulgent smile crosses his face.

"You're a wheedling little minx aren't you?" He laughs, and Seth nods, taking Roman's hand, leading him off in search of Dean.

"I'm just saying that Dean's feelings will either run their course, or they'll get deeper. It's just something we have to wait out." Dean's lying on the couch in the living room, curled up in a blanket. "Hey... Dean?"

"Hmm?" He doesn't look up from his phone, and Seth sits by him. Roman crouches down by Dean, and inserts his face between Dean's cell and his own.

"I'm sorry." Roman sounds solemnly serious, and Dean laughs, tossing his cell to Seth so he can pull Roman down for a kiss.

"It's okay... You're right. I know I'm getting in over my head with Punk, but..." Dean sighs, and sits up, letting Roman sit down, then he rests his head on Roman's thighs. "He's something else. If you spent some time with him, got to know him, his story... You'd find it hard to resist him too." Dean laughs, and Roman fingers stroke over Dean's face. Seth shifts, taking Dean's legs, and placing them in his lap, starting to untie his shoes.

"Tell me then." Roman says with a smile, and Dean sighs, glancing down at Seth. He summons a reassuring smile, and cups Dean's cheek.

"C'mon, you're enamoured, Dean... You gotta tell us why." Seth leans over and kisses Dean lightly, righting himself with a grin. "There has to be more than amazing sex, because let's face it, there's not sex more amazing than sex with me _and_ Ro." He laughs, and Dean smiles at him, that one sweet soft smile Seth's seen maybe a dozen times. That one smile that makes his insides feel all gooey.

"I keep thinking how awesome sex with all three of you would be... Punk's the sweetest little thing in bed, you'd _love_ fucking him, Ro." Dean grins up at Roman, and he smirks down at Dean. "Tight little thing, and the noises he makes... Like fucking poetry. He's got this pretty little cock too, Seth... You'd love sucking on him. He gets all nervous, and embarrassed when he's close, you'd tease the shit out of him." Dean laughs, and Seth shrugs. He likes sucking cocks, likes bottoming a lot more than topping, but he thinks he'd enjoying having Punk's legs wrapped around him. "He's a snuggler too... Wraps around you like an anaconda." There's that soft smile on Dean's lips again, and Seth's almost jealous that Punk can summon it without even being present.

"You've got it bad." Roman laughs, and Dean looks up at him. "I don't think I've ever heard you _swoony_ over anyone before, not even Seth, and yet! Here you are _swooning_ over Punk." Dean snorts at Roman's comment, but doesn't deny that he's swooning. The three sit in silence for a little while, and then head for bed. There's not much else to do, and the party had been long, the day had been long, and knowing Sugar Daddy's habits, Punk will be delivered back home early in the morning, pale, shaky and tired.

"Morning Gentlemen." Punk comes in just after seven a.m. looking exhausted, and pale. His Sugar Daddy never seems to let him sleep if he's summoned for a visit, and he never looks or sounds like he had a particularly good time.

"Hey!" Seth plasters a happy smile on his face, to cover up the concern he feels in the pit of his stomach. Dean had neatly avoided telling them anything about Punk last night, and it'd only been whilst Seth was lying in bed that he'd realised that. He and Roman had asked for Punk's story, and Dean had distracted them with talk of sex. It's not usually how these things go, Dean isn't usually one to use distraction, if he doesn't want to tell he won't, but last night he'd used a diversion, and once it occurred to Seth, it had kept him awake puzzling over the why of it.

"Merry Christmas... Here, eat up." Roman sets a plate of waffles down in front of Punk, and he shakes his head.

"I'm not hungry." He starts heading for the door to the hallway, and Dean grabs his wrist.

"Eat a little." Dean's voice is soft, the grip he has on Punk's wrist is light, but Punk is frozen to the spot like he'd be shackled in place. Punk sighs, and relents to Dean quiet request, picking at the waffles.

"We'd like to talk to you." Seth says once Punk seems to have lost all interest in eating. He glances up, shaking his head, and stands.

"Later, please? I'm dirty, and tired. Gimme a few hours, then you can _talk_ to me all you want. I'll even cook something nice for Christmas dinner, but for now, leave me alone, _please_." Punk leaves the room, and Seth levels Dean with a heavy gaze.

"What happened to him?" Roman's voice surprises Seth for two reasons. Firstly, the darkly possessive tone it has, and secondly, because he'd not expected Roman to get so onboard with the idea they'd discussed that morning while Dean was showering. Dean looks over at Roman, and shakes his head.

"Nothing good." He shrugs, and stands. "I'll go check on him." He leaves Seth and Roman alone, and Roman looks pointedly at Seth.

"We should go... If we're serious about letting Dean have him, we need to be more involved." He stands from the stool he's sitting on and gathers the empty plates, putting them in the dishwasher.

"Involved... We might freak him out though." Seth finishes his coffee, and stands too, a frown on his face. "But, its better that all the freaking out gets done quickly I guess." Roman follows along behind Seth, heading for Punk's room on the other side of the apartment.

"Punkin, you should just leave him... You don't need this place. You don't need to stay with him. We'll get a new client, and I'll talk to the guys, maybe they'll let you stay with us." Seth pauses at the door when he hears Dean talking. His voice is soft, and Punk hisses through his teeth at something. "Sorry... He made a mess of you... _Again_."

"It's okay." Punk sounds tiredly resigned. Seth knocks on the door before pushing it open, and pausing in the doorway, Roman pressed against his back, looking over his shoulder. "Hello." Punk says dryly. He's shirtless, facing the door, with Dean behind him, on the bed there's a small basin of pinkish water.

"It'd be better to shower to get the blood off." Seth says calmly, walking into the room, ignoring the tension he can feel radiating from Roman. That tension does put something at ease in Seth's gut, if Roman were apathetic towards Punk being injured then nothing would come of their including him in their relationship, even if it were for Dean's sake. "C'mon." Seth reaches out towards Punk, gently taking a hold of his wrist and encouraging him to his feet."Ro, start the shower." Seth reaches for Punk's fly, and Dean's hand grabs Seth's wrist.

"What are you doing?" He asks coolly, and Seth smiles as warmly as he can under that icy possessive glare.

"You care for him, we love you, so we'll accept him as one of our own." Seth smiles at Dean, and Punk stares between the two of them, his eyes wide with confusion.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Punk's voice is strangely tinted with awe, and Seth's about to explain, when Roman comes back, and picks Punk up, carrying him to the bathroom. Punk appears to be too shocked to protest, and Seth smiles at Dean.

"He makes you swoony, Dean... We'll stay. We'll keep him for you." Seth smiles, and Dean kisses him, breaking the kiss with a grin.

"Thanks, man." He laughs, heading for the bathroom when Punk makes an odd startled squeak. Seth follows along behind him, and has to hold back a laugh at the scene that greets him. Punk's clothes are on the floor, and Roman's tongue is in his mouth. "Ro's a good kisser, huh Punkin?" Dean laughs, and Punk breaks the kiss looking bewildered, and little afraid.

"What's going on here? Explain this weird shit to me." He retreats to the shower, pulling the curtain, and Dean perches on the counter by the sink, Roman takes a seat on the toilet lid, and Seth settles on his knee. The three of the watching Punk's silhouette moving slowly as he showers.

"I told you that me and the guys were close, right?" Dean asks, drumming his fingers on his thighs, and swinging his feet a little.

"Uh-huh." Punk's silhouette is strangely distracting, and Seth finds himself paying close attention to it, like watching a shadow puppet play. "Wait... The _three_ of you?" Punk's head pokes out from behind the curtain, and he stares at Dean, his eyes almost comically wide.

"The three of us." Seth confirms, and Punk withdraws, the expression on his face utterly crestfallen.

"Oh... I get it. I'm sorry. I'll tell Vince you're leaving. I didn't mean to step on any toes." While Punk's speaking his tone gets more and more miserable, Dean starts pulling over his clothes, by the time Punk's finished, Dean's yanked back the shower curtain, and is kissing Punk fiercely. His hands roam down Punk's back, and back up again to tangle in his hair. "Wrong end of the stick?" Punk asks, his tone slightly dazed.

"Wrong _stick_ entirely." Seth chuckles, and pulls his shirt off, then shucks his pants. "Turn round, lemme see your back." Dean turns Punk around, kissing him again, letting Seth see his back. There's a few bruises, and a couple of sluggishly bleeding spots, but it's not as bad as Seth had thought it might be. "I think you'll be okay. We'll put some cream on it." He kisses Punk's shoulder, and there's an odd moan from Roman.

"Face me again, Punk." His voice has dropped to that deep rumble he gets when he's turned on, and Seth's not sure what he's got in mind, but he's sure that it'll be fun. "Hold him tight, Dean. Seth, welcome him to the family." Roman smirks, and Seth sinks to his knees, staring up at Punk.

"This okay, Punkin?" Dean murmurs in Punk's ear, and he nods vaguely still staring down at Seth. "Seth's real good at this, don't worry... I got you." Seth laps at the head of Punk's flaccid cock, his hand cupping his balls, rolling them lightly, before taking one into his mouth and sucking on it. Punk's head flops back against Dean's shoulder, and Seth smirks, letting go of Punk's ball and starting to lap at the other. Dean had said that Punk had a _pretty little cock_, and whilst Seth would dispute little, he won't deny pretty. He really does make the sweetest noises too, just audible over the sound of the shower, muted gasping moans, as Seth plays with his cock, licking, sucking and stroking, getting him hard.

"Suck on him, Seth. I wanna see him come." Roman rumbles from the behind him, and Seth sighs, sucking Punk's cock down. It's clear from the strangled moan Punk hadn't expected to be deep throated, and Seth would dearly like to smirk at him for that, but he can't, he's busy with a mouthful of cock.

"He's good, isn't he?" Dean's voice is difficult to hear, and if Punk replies Seth doesn't notice, he's too focussed on making this the best blowjob Punk's ever had. When he comes, his legs almost giving out, and Seth thinks he's accomplished that goal.

"Thank you." Punk's smile is dreamy and soft, his voice wispy and small, and Seth can't help but kiss him, sharing Punk's cum with him. "You're really very good at that." Punk nuzzles back against Dean, that content smile still on his face.

"We're not done yet, Punkin. Let's go." Dean laughs, and Seth takes the still wobbly Punk from him as he switches off the shower. Roman throws Dean a towel, that he wraps around his waist. Seth considers handing Punk back over, but just come Punk is a soft, sweet creature who likes to lay delicate kisses along all the hot spots on Seth's neck, his thin fingers dancing over Seth's chest and stomach.

"Where are we going?" Punk murmurs between gently nipping kisses, and Seth laughs, unsurprised when Roman comes over and wraps a big towel around both he and Punk.

"To bed, little Punk... We're taking you to bed." Roman kisses the top of Punk's head, and then takes a hold of Dean's chin, kissing him firmly. "I wanna see this pretty little ass stretched round my cock. You object?" Seth frowns, and Punk pulls away from nipping Seth's collarbone, looking slightly offended.

"Shouldn't you be asking me that question?" His voice is coldly offended, and Roman smiles awkwardly.

"You're right... I'm sorry." Roman kisses his forehead, and his expression grows serious. "You've a beautiful ass, Punk. I'd like to fuck you in it, but if you object, then my question to Dean stands." He laughs, and Punk stares at him.

"I dunno... I've seen what everyone else is working with, you're a mystery." Punk's clearly trying to sound haughty and cool, but the contentment of Seth's blowjob is hard to shake. Roman pulls off his clothes far faster than Seth's ever seen, and smirks when Punk's hand rests on his half-hard length. "Okay... Mystery solved." Punk smiles, and nods. "Uh, maybe you go last? I mean... I wanna be prepared for that." Punk's fingers look so delicate compared to Roman's thick cock, and Seth chuckles in his ear.

"It's okay. It looks intimidating, but really, it's not scary in the least... Like Roman really. All those big muscles, and tattoos-"

"And the hair." Punk chimes in interrupting Seth, and Dean laughs at them, kissing Punk softly. "What you can't forget all that shampoo commercial hair." Punk's laugh is airy, if indignant, and Seth has to agree with him. Roman's hair is very distinctive and shiny.

"C'mon, all this standing around... Let's go." Dean takes Punk from Seth, kissing him, then leading the way back to the bedroom. Once there, Dean strips the towel from his waist, and guides Punk back to the bed, laying him down. "We'll go slow, okay? If you're not comfortable, you let me know, and these two will get out." Dean glances over at Roman and Seth. Seth nods, and elbows Roman, wanting him to confirm that if anything spooks Punk they'll back off.

"Yeah, okay." Punk's voice is still wispy and soft, and Seth grins. He's more than a little proud of his blowjob skills, he's had years of practice, and enjoys giving head far more than he should really. "How are we... What are you..." Punk trails off without ever finishing any sentence, and Dean roots around under the pillows, producing a bottle of lube. He coats a couple of fingers, and tosses it over to Seth.

"We're gonna open you up, then we're gonna fuck this pretty little ass of yours." Dean leers, sliding a finger into Punk.

"All three? Two... Maybe, you and Seth _maybe_, but Roman... There's no way." Punk's staring at Roman's cock, and Seth laughs at the smirk on his face. Roman's a substantial guy, and he's damn proud of that fact.

"One at time, Punk... One at a time." Roman goes over to the bed, and holds a hand out to Seth. "C'mere, Seth. Many hands make light work." He laughs, and Seth snorts, coating a couple of his fingers, then he tosses the lube bottle to Roman.

"Ah, _fuck_." Punk moans, and Seth glances down between his legs, seeing one finger from both Dean and Roman inside him. Seth smirks, and slowly eases a finger between the other two in Punk's hole.

"There, all three." Seth smirks, and Punk stares at him, panting slightly. Roman leans over and kisses him again, his hand cupping the back of Punk's head. Seth knows how good Roman's kisses are, and the way Punk's toes curl confirms that Punk enjoys them at least as much as Seth does.

"C'mon, you pair clear out... I wanna make sure he's ready myself." Dean mutters, and Seth, then Roman withdraw their fingers from Punk's ass. "You okay? They didn't hurt you did they?"

"No, no... It was kind of weird, but good." Punk's smiling, and Dean looks dubious. "No, _really_, I did. This is all a little weird... We - _Ah_ - Need to talk about this." Punk gasps again, and Dean grins at him. Seth snuggles up to Roman, watching the scene in front of him. Punk and Dean are beautiful together, watching them feels like a treat more than anything else. "I'm ready, Boo." Punk laughs, and Dean snorts.

"Wait... _Boo_?" Roman interrupts, and Punk laughs, turning to look at Roman.

"You ever play Baldur's Gate?" Punk smirks, and Dean groans, rubbing his cock over Punk's hole.

"Don't get him started on this... He'll demand you call him Minsc, and I'm fucking nothing like a hamster, you brat." Dean snaps, and Punk moans softly as Dean fills him. There's a part of Seth that wants to know what Punk and Dean were talking about, but he more interested in watching, and listening to Dean and Punk. He knows how good Dean is with his cock, knows how it feels to have him slowly penetrate your body, his lips pressing kisses to your throat whilst whispering quietly heavy words of adoration. It's the first time Seth's seen anyone else being taken by Dean, the first time he's seen it from what he supposes is Roman's perspective, and it's strangely beautiful. Punk isn't what Seth's usually attracted to, but he's seen the desire in Dean's eyes when he looks at him, and seeing him like this, Seth can see what Dean does.

"That's damn pretty." Roman's voice is a deep purr in Seth's ear, and his teeth nibble at his ear lobe. "Look how well he takes that cock. Dean, he's beautiful." Roman calls out, and Dean picks his head up from Punk's neck, smirking slightly.

"You hear that, Punkin? Ro thinks you're pretty... _Beautiful_. See, it's not just me." He laughs, and Seth watches Punk arch his back, trying to inspire Dean to move faster. "Gonna come in you last... Let Seth, and Ro have their shot at filling you up, then I'm gonna give you what you really need, Punkin." Punk nods at Dean, and he pulls out of Punk's body. "All yours, Seth. Be careful with him." Seth nods, and trades places with Dean, situating himself between Punk's thighs.

"This is okay, isn't it?" Seth asks, and Punk nods, a smile on his lips. "Cause I mean, I know, well, I..." Seth can't quite force the words out, and Punk smiles, pulling him down for a kiss.

"You don't get to top either of them do you?" Punk's voice is softly amused and Roman barks a laugh at them as Seth shakes his head. "C'mon then, show them what they're missing." Punk's legs wrap around Seth's waist, squeezing tightly. Seth palms his cock, resting the head at Punk's hole. "Go on." He says softly, and Seth presses forward, easing into the tight heat of Punk's body. He's tight, almost painfully tight, and if Seth didn't know it, hadn't just seen Dean in this position, he'd question if Punk had ever had sex before.

"Jesus..." Seth mutters once he's fully sheathed in Punk's body, stilling, waiting for the go-ahead, staring down at Punk's face. "You okay?" He leans down and brushes a kiss over his temple. Punk shifts beneath his slightly, and his legs squeeze Seth's waist.

"It's okay, go on, fuck me." Punk smiles up at him, and Seth isn't one to refuse that kind of offer. He starts slowly, but builds speed quickly enough until he's truly _fucking_ Punk, their bodies moving in unison. Dean had said that Punk was good in bed, and Seth agrees, he might seem quite passive, but the muscles deep in his body ripple and contract in a way that has to be caused by Punk, in a way that is specially designed to make Seth come. "Where should I come?" Seth pants after a while, he's close, he knows he is, and he needs Punk's decision quickly.

"In me, come in me... I'm gonna need it for Roman." Punk moans beneath him, and Seth can vaguely hear Roman laughing.

"We'll go slow little Punk, very _slow_." Seth shakes his head, Roman's words are the antithesis of what he's doing to Punk right then. When he comes he throws his head back, and Punk's legs squeeze him tightly, as though he was intent on forcing every drop of cum out of Seth's body.

"They're missing out." Punk pants into Seth's ear as he collapses on top of him. "You're incredible... If this is a regular thing, I'm not letting them have you like this. You cock only goes in me." Punk sounds curiously possessive, and strangely, it fills Seth with a sense of pride.

"Very regular, Punk." Seth kisses him, and Dean groans. Seth breaks the kiss, and notices that both Dean and Roman are jacking each other off.

"What? Two beautiful men having sex, of course we're gonna jerk off. You've no idea how fucking hot that looked." Dean laughs, and Punk turns away, his cheeks tinged red. "Punkin... You're gonna have to ask Seth for tips on how to take a compliment, cause you're gonna be getting a lot of them." Seth kisses Punk's temple, ignoring Dean.

"You _are_ beautiful... And we _will_ keep telling you that until you're as convinced of it as I am." Seth laughs, and pulls out of Punk, grinning at the little trail of cum that follows his cock. "Lube, Ro... _Plenty _of lube. Punk's a tight little thing." Seth can't resist the urge to play with the cum leaking from Punk's hole, even just a little. He eases a finger inside his ass, fucking Punk with it slowly, before withdrawing it from Punk's body. He lifts the cum covered finger to his lips, and licks it a little, before offering it to Punk. He takes it into his mouth, and from just that, Seth concludes that next time he's getting a blowjob from Punk; there might be a few tricks Seth can learn from him.

"Out the way, Seth." Roman moves to take Seth's place, and Seth clambers over to Dean, flopping contentedly down beside him.

"Want me to suck it for you?" He offers nodding down to Dean's cock, and Dean shakes his head, his eyes focussed on Roman's larger body between Punk's thighs.

"If it hurts, if it's too much, you tell me, okay?" Roman sounds serious, and Punk nods. Seth frown, and taps Dean's thigh.

"Go, hold him." Dean looks over at Seth, and Seth sighs, crawling over the bed, and taking Punk's cock in his hand. Dean follows him, and move to sit behind Punk. "Sit up a little, lean against Dean." Dean's arms are around Punk as soon as he moves to the position Seth suggested. "I know it looks big, but you'll be okay, Punk." Punk nods, and Roman makes several shallow thrusts at Punk's asshole, teasing penetration but not entering him.

"This time, okay?" Roman's voice is a low growl, and Seth's spent cock gives a half-hearted twitch at the sound of it. This time the head of Roman's cock enters Punk's body, and he still immediately, the tension, and restraint he's exercising impresses Seth. He knows how good Punk feels, knows how there'd been no stopping him until his whole cock had been inside of Punk, but Roman's stopped with only the head of his cock inside the glorious, clenching warmth of Punk's ass.

"You okay?" Dean's hands are running soothingly along Punk's chest, his voice low and calm, clearly trying to keep Punk in the moment. Seth takes a hold of Punk's cock again, stroking him slowly.

"It big isn't it?" He asks, and Punk nods slightly, his chest rising and falling rapidly. "That first little bit... It always makes my breath catch too." Seth kisses Punk, and from behind him, he can hear Roman groan.

"You two are gonna be the death of me." He groans, and Seth turns to him with a wink. "Minx." He mutters, and Punk laughs, a strange choked noise, but it makes Seth feel better about the whole situation, if Punk's laughing he can't be in too much pain.

"It's the head." Dean speaks suddenly. "It's the biggest part, and it goes first every thrust, and you can always feel it... Took some fucking time to be able to handle it, but once this is familiar, you'll love it, Punkin." Punk glances up at Dean, and he smiles down at him, giving him an odd upside down kiss. "When that big old head's rubbing over your sweet spot, you'll know all about it." Dean chuckles and Roman laughs, swatting a Dean's head.

"Move! I wanna kiss the pretty little thing I'm inside." Roman leans down, and Punk makes the prettiest little moan when the shift Roman makes eases a little more of his cock into him. "Where's that lube bottle? You've the tightest little ass, Punk." Seth smirks at the fondness in Roman's tone, and when he looks up at Dean, there's that soft smile that Seth so rarely sees on his face as he watches Roman fuss over Punk.

"It's not that I'm tight, it's that your cock is so fucking big." Punk's wearing a smile, so Seth takes that as a good thing, and keeps playing with Punk's still soft cock. Roman chuckles and pulls out of Punk, applying more lube to his cock, and more directly to Punk's ass. "More this time." Punk says calmly, and Roman nods, easing in once more. "Wait... _Fuck_! Please wait." Punk's panting again, and Seth increases his efforts with Punk's cock, stroking him a little faster.

"Any time you wanna quit, Punk." Roman leans down for another kiss, and Punk shakes his head. He's wearing the look of determination Seth knows he'd worn the first time he'd taken Roman's cock. It's a much a matter of pride, as it is a matter of desire at this stage, being able to take Roman's dick isn't really an accomplishment, but the first time you do, it feels like one.

"Okay." At this Roman moves forward a little more, then pulls back, working the little of Punk's body he's penetrated. It's slow like this for a long time, Roman pausing often, applying more lube, Dean and Seth stroking and soothing Punk, until finally all of Roman is inside of Punk's tight hole. There's another pause at that moment, and Seth leans down to suckle on Punk's cock, making him moan quietly. Punk decides then that Dean's been neglected for too long, and twists his head to take Dean's dick in his mouth, sucking on it, making both Dean and Roman groan in pleasure. Seth had never realised what voyeur Roman was until now, but it seems like he really does get off on watching a lot more than he's ever let on before.

"You okay?" Roman asks, and Seth chuckles sitting up, and meeting Roman's eyes.

"His mouth's a little busy, Ro. C'mere, lemme kiss you." Seth catching the back of Roman's neck and kisses him, slow and deep, tasting every inch of Roman's mouth.

"Ready when you are, Roman." Punk's voice interrupts the kiss, and Seth moves away, tapping Dean's thigh to encourage him to move away and let Roman take Punk without inference. It's a far slower paced fuck than the one Seth gave Punk, still with many pauses and slow moments in the beginning, but eventually Punk seems to truly get into it, and is moaning low and constantly as Roman moves inside of him. Roman's lips are by Punk's ear the whole time, and his voice is too low to hear anything of but a rumble like faraway thunder. Whatever they are, his words are having an effect on Punk, his arms and legs clinging to Roman, his back arching into the fluid thrusts of Roman's hips.

"Inside too?" Roman asks, his voice giving away that he's close to coming. Punk nods, and Roman comes with his normal loud but inarticulate bellow. He pulls out of Punk, and then leans over him, kissing him deeply. "You'll be used to me before too long." Roman smiles as he breaks the kiss. "But every time you're gonna those sweet little noises for me... You know, Dean said you were like poetry, and I thought he was joking, but you are. Gorgeous little thing." Roman kisses Punk again, and Seth has to hold back a smirk. Roman had been staunchly against getting involved with Punk just a few hours ago, and now he's cooing over him, making promises of sex in the future. Dean makes an annoyed huff, looking impatient to finish, impatient to take Punk and fill him with his own cum, but Roman seems very much disinclined to let Punk go, his arms sliding under Punk's shoulders, holding him closer, kissing him deeper, his fingers stroking Punk's mildly injured back tenderly.

"_Ahem!_" Dean clears his throat, and Seth laughs at him. Roman looks up sheepishly, and Dean sighs. "Move it." Dean snaps at Roman, and Punk clings a little to him.

"He's a very good kisser." Punk answers vaguely, a content smile on his lips.

"Better than me?" There doesn't sound like there's any jealousy in that question, and it surprises Seth, usually Dean makes everything a competition, usually Dean likes to be able to win even in small ways, but with Punk it seems like his happiness is more important than Dean's need to be number one.

"C'mere and lemme compare." Punk makes grabby hands at Dean, and Roman moves, coming to settle by Seth, wrapping an arm around Seth's shoulders.

"He's good... Did he do the thing?" Roman whispers into Seth's ear, and Seth nods, more interested in watching Dean easing gently into Punk, his hips rocking slowly, their lips locked, their hands holding each other tightly. "They look good don't they?" Roman asks, and this time Seth turns to him.

"They do... But you looked good with him too, and I'm thinking by the way you were panting, Punk and I look pretty good together as well." Seth smirks, and Roman nods, pressing a kiss to Seth's hair. It doesn't take too long for Punk to come, Dean's hand had been wrapped around Punk's cock, stroking hard and fast. Seth might give the best blowjobs, but Dean's handjobs are incredible, those long spidery fingers know how to play a cock so very well. Once Punk's come, Dean seems to redouble his efforts to find his own orgasm, and he comes wordlessly, his face buried against Punk's neck.

"Is he asleep?" Roman whispers after neither Dean nor Punk move for a lot longer than you'd expect.

"Dean, are you..." Seth moves a little closer to Dean and Punk. It really does look like they had both come, and very shortly after fallen asleep, which is kind of cute, Seth turns to Roman, and grins. Roman stands, heading to the bathroom to fetch something to clean up a little.

"Shh... You'll wake him up." Dean grumbles, and he presses a kiss to Punk's forehead, before pulling out of his hole. "Gimme a-"

"Here." Roman hands Dean the damp cloth he'd retrieved. With gentle swipes, Dean cleans Punk up as best he can, tossing the cloth towards the laundry basket in the corner of the room.

"Seems like a waste." Seth yawns, snuggling up beside Punk's sleeping body, the next time Seth isn't going to let all the cum Dean just wiped from Punk's body got to waste, next time Seth is going to lap it out of Punk's ass. "You over there." He points at Dean and then to the other side of Punk.

"I'll go back here then, I guess." Roman chuckles, lying down behind Seth and wrapping his arms around his waist. "He'll be okay with us being here when he wakes up?"

"Better than him being alone, and thinking we used him." Dean mutters as he lies down, gathering Punk close and kissing his cheek. "He'll be confused, and maybe a little freaked out, but if he was on his own, it'd be much worse." Seth kisses Punk's cheek, watching as a little smile flits over his sleeping face.

"It'll be okay... We won't let him be alone." Seth yawns again, and nuzzles back against Roman. When they wake up again, then they'll see if this was a good Christmas present for all of them, or not. They can discuss arrangements, and methods for getting Punk away from his Sugar Daddy later in the day, because he's not staying with that man in his life. There's a whole story there that Seth and Roman need filled in on, a whole story Seth knows is going to trigger something darkly protective in Roman, because Punk is now his to protect, just as he is Dean's and Seth's. These are all things to do later though, because for now the only thing to do is sleep.

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><p><em>Thank you to my dear <strong>Rebellecherry, and <strong>**guest **for __the reviews. :3_

_Up twenty-first we have **The Waltz of the Snowflakes**- I had to have something from the Nutcracker in this collection... I love that ballet. :3_

_Not much is set in stone for these fics - so if you'd like to fire me a song and pairing combo in a PM, I'll have a listen and see what I can come up with. - You have until the 5th! Last fic will be published on the 6th._

**_You can't give me an apple _****_for Christmas _****_like my students did, but you can give me a review! ;)_**


	22. O Christmas Tree

_Warnings: Mild Slash__ (Finn Bálor/Hideo Itami),__ Mild Profanity, Fluff._

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><p>It's a tradition, an old familiar tradition that makes it feel like Christmas. It doesn't matter what country he's in, it's a tradition he always follows. Every year there's a tree. No matter where he is, there's a tree, and this year will be the same, as soon as he gets the time to go find one. NXT is keeping them busy, and everyone's constantly doing something, there's always something that needs to be done, from training to working on promos to just working out. It's strange how much training there is involved in this Developmental system. A part of him wants to scoff at being taught how to wrestle, he's done it for years, he knows what he's doing, but the WWE style is <em>different<em>, and it's their way or nothing at all. He's seen guys come through the whole thing, has worked with them, and they do have a different style of wrestling. Better or worse, he's not sure, but it is different, but lots of things are different here.

He'd been to the States before, but now he lives there, and there's a part of him that misses the country that had been basically home for so long. He misses sushi, he misses neon lights and Harajuku girls dressed up like anime characters, he misses sake and terrible karaoke, he misses the _feel_ of Tokyo. Not that Florida isn't nice, but it's not got the same vibrancy, its more laidback, not in the way that Ireland was, but it lacks restrained mania of Tokyo.

"You alright, there?"His tag-partner is sitting reading, quietly, unobtrusively reading through another language course book, a notepad and pen beside him. Most people would take the Rosetta Stone route when it comes to language learning, but Asian schooling involves having things drummed into your head by rote repetition, and it seems to be working out well enough for him so far.

"Devitt-san?" Honorifics have for the most part been dropped when talking to most people, but Kenta seems to cling to some desperate hope that he remembers enough of his time in Japan to be comfortable with them. He's not, he wasn't comfortable with being Devitt-san in Japan, and he's no more comfortable with it in America.

"Fer-"He pauses, and reconsiders, his name ends in an _L_ and there's a reason he was usually _Devitt-san_ that wasn't just related to respect. "Fuck it, new start, new names, right? It's Finn, Kobayashi-san." Finn smirks, and his tag-partner looks mildly putout.

"Ah." He nods, and returns to his books. It's another thing that had annoyed him about Japan, how one little syllable can be an entire conversation. From most people nothing more than a nod and _ah_ would be rude, but from a Japanese person it's a lot more. That _ah_ translates, loosely, as _I see, but don't call me Kobayashi-san, if we're using new ring names, I am Itami-san. Also fuck you for Bálor, I'm never saying that because it'll be Baroru or something just as bad, so by your annoying decision I will concede to calling you Finn_. One syllables is a eloquent thing from the right mouths, and the mouths of the Japanese are very eloquent with just that one syllable.

"So... Itami-san-"

"Hideo." He's corrected without Hideo looking up from his book, and he nods vaguely.

"_Hideo_." There's no correction or insistence of the san so he keeps going. "You wanna come help me get a tree for the room?" The WWE had put them in one room, and he doesn't mind, it means that as soon as Hideo had found the best sushi place there was plenty of it to go around, it means that there's someone close by who's as frustrated by the amount of sweet bland mush that makes up American food, and is willing to make something better from the available ingredients.

"Tree?" This finally gets a look, and he nods a grin on his face. "A Christmas tree?" The word _Christmas_ is pronounced slowly and carefully as though to ensure that all of the syllables are gotten out correctly.

"Aye, a Christmas tree." Finn stands, there's enough time today to go out and find the tree, and then over the next few days he can go out hunting for decorations. The weekend he intends to decorate it, and then it'll finally feel like Christmas, because all this sunshine isn't cutting it for him. He wants snow, or at least overcast grey skies, and people bundled up against the cold. There's a part of him that wants to walk past armies of people in the brightly coloured facemasks so common in Tokyo, anything to make it at least feel like winter, even if it didn't feel like Christmas. Florida tries to invoke the Christmas spirit, but there's only so much a million light bulbs can do in the face of sunshine and balmy temperatures. Hideo looks at him blankly for a few seconds, and nods once more, closing the book and standing. "Great... Let's go then."

"Ah." It's strange for such a succinct answer to feel familiar but it does, and that's a blessing more than anything else in this new environment. _Ah _in Japanese has so many meanings, and this one's meaning is simple, it means nothing more than _okay_.

They escape the Training Centre easily enough, walking past rooms of people all working hard, all hoping to be the next big thing. There's still a fair bit of reverence sent Hideo's way, despite his many embarrassed insistences that he is nothing more than a Young Boy in NXT, the same as everyone else. When he'd used the phrase Young Boy, it had amused Finn to watch the expressions on people face. The ones who'd been to Japan, or at least knew about the Japanese training system had look horrified that the great KENTA would put himself on that level, but the ones who weren't knowledgeable had worn confusion, one of them pointing out that Hideo at thirty-three wasn't all that young. If Hideo had noticed the confusion his comment had caused he didn't say anything, not even an _ah_, so Finn had assumed it didn't bother him all that much.

"Where will we find your tree?" It's kind of interesting to hear Hideo's English improve, his vocabulary seems to expand daily, but he's still cautious with his words, reluctant to give them unless he's sure they're as perfect as they can be. It's a curious trait of Japan that he'd reluctantly come to understood, a mispronounced word could lead to a misunderstanding, and then that in turn could lead to problems, and then the problems could spiral out of control, and all because of a mispronounced word. It was like living in a society of Anxiety suffers who all didn't want to talk in case they brought about the end of the World. He'd gotten used to it, and had made it his mission to try and bring assurances to every Japanese person he spoke to that if he didn't understand he'd ask them to say it again. Interpreting what they were trying to say was much easier than trying to get to grips with their language.

"I don't know... We'll look, I guess." He has a vague idea of where a tree might be found, and it's not too far, but the exact location isn't something he knows, if only because he doesn't know which tree is the right one for this year.

"Ah." It's not a surprise when all he gets back is a simple syllable, but he understands it means _okay, we'll look, and hopefully this will be over soon enough_. So all he does is laugh, and start walking, mentally trying to remember where the petrol station that had a tree seller outside of it was.

The tree is found quickly enough, and as planned, he spends the scant free time he has over the week gathering decorations to the increasing interest of Hideo, who never volunteers to come on the shopping trips, but is willing to sit and look at the various shiny trinkets he brings back to their place. The pile of decorations grows, and when the weekend comes, the traditional music is on the stereo, a Christmas jumper and Santa hat that it's too hot to wear is put on, and he considers asking for aide in this endeavour.

"Do you want help?" The offer is a surprise, but a welcome one.

"Sure! You ever decorated a tree before?" A spare Santa hat is tossed Hideo's way, and there's a brief thought to take a photo, that is cancelled out by Hideo taking a selfie, pulling the standard V pose of every Japanese selfie he's ever seen.

"Where..." A frustrated look crosses Hideo's face, and he waits patiently, knowing the sentence is being translated from Japanese to English. "How do we do this?" It's easier to show rather than tell how to decorate a tree. There are many approaches, but he has his traditions, and they have to be adhered to, lights then tinsel, then baubles, then the sweets, and finally the star. There's something about it being bad luck to not put it on last, and whilst he's not overly superstitious, he likes traditions more than he lets on, so the star always goes on last. They work in mostly silence, a few brief comments made on placement of one ornament or another, a few tweaks of tinsel garlands that are disputed, but silence reigns supreme, and the tree is completed fairly quickly.

"Not bad for a first timer." He laughs, and there's a pause, then a polite bow of Hideo's head.

"Thank you." He mutters, taking his seat on the couch, returning to his language books.

"You know... The best way to get better is to speak." Finn plugs the lights in, and feels instantly more Christmassy.

"Ah." _I know, but I'm not taking the risk of embarrassing myself_, so much in just one little syllable. He lets it go, and starts bringing festive cheer to the rest of the room, tinsel around as many things as possible, another string of lights around the window, strange brightly coloured foil garlands on the ceiling. When he's done with the decorations that needing securing in place, he starts on the spray snow and stencils for the window, carefully avoiding his lights, trying to capture something of the cold and snow that his brain is telling him he should be seeing and feeling with a spray can and a cut-out snowman.

Over the course of the next week, he makes adjustments to the room, tweaks things, makes the decorations look perfect, and by Friday, he thinks it's there. Only there's an unauthorised addition to his hard work when he gets in on Friday night.

"The fuck is that?" He looks up at the greenery above the door, and frowns. It looks like mistletoe, but of all the decorations he bought, of all the traditions he has, this isn't one. "Hid-" His words are cut off by Hideo's lips pressing against his own.

"I was told it was... _Traditional_." Hideo walks away from him, and Finn stares as he starts reading once more, his eyes moving over the vocabulary list rapidly.

"You put it there?" Finn asks, licking his lips, considering if he's freaked out by this or not. He thinks not, but he's not entirely sure about that.

"Ah." A simple syllable, and in this instance meaning nothing more than _yes, I was told it was traditional_. Finn hops up and grabs the mistletoe, pulling it down, and turning it around in his hands.

"You put it there so you could kiss me?" He comes over and sits on the couch. The best way to find out if he's freaked out or not is to try again.

"Ah." _Maybe, why? _Hideo turns to him, and glances up at the mistletoe above his head, a smirk forming on his lips.

"Wanna kiss me again?" He leans closer, the hand not holding the mistletoe above their heads is on Hideo's face.

"Ah." _Shut up and kiss me_.

* * *

><p><em>Thank you to my dear <strong>AshJovillette<strong>**, johncenapunkjericholic, **__**littleone 1389,**__** and Rebellecherry **for __the reviews. :3_

_Up twenty-second we have **O Christmas Tree** - I like the idea of this pairing... I need to do some more research on them, but I like the idea, what can I say? Also, I work with some Japanese teachers (lovely people with a strange fondness for my accent - Scottish English is apparently very soft to their ears), and have witnessed a very serious conversation that was entirely ah's between them... It was hilarious. _

_Not much is set in stone for these fics - so if you'd like to fire me a song and pairing combo in a PM, I'll have a listen and see what I can come up with. - You have until the 5th! Last fic will be published on the 6th._

**_You can't give me an apple _****_for Christmas _****_like my students did, but you can give me a review! ;)_**


	23. In the Bleak Mid-Winter

_Warnings: Slash (Ambrose/Punk), (Colt/Punk), Minor Slash (Ambrose/Colt), (Colt/Ambrose/Punk), Mild Profanity, Fluff. Sequel to **Let It Snow (Ch. 19)**_

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><p>Dean is aware of the fact that he should feel incredibly lazy, he'd spent most of yesterday asleep, all of last night asleep, and yet he doesn't, he simply feels well rested and confused. Well-rested because of all the sleeping he did, and confused because of where and how he'd slept. Before the night before last, he'd been convinced he didn't much like Cabana, but then there'd been the hair stroking, and the being all warm and safe cuddled up to him all of yesterday. It's the kind of quick turnaround that Dean is fine with causing, but hates having to endure. He'd like today to be a return to normal, or at least a return to the truce, but he'd woken up with Cabana's arm still around him, and he'd panicked. He'd almost jumped out of bed, and left the bedroom, heading straight to the shower to puzzle over his situation, and had managed to achieve nothing but using all the hot water. He'd ended up sitting on the couch, watching TV with the sound turned down low, trying very hard to resist the urge to go back to bed, and snuggle up with Punk and Cabana once more. They'd stayed asleep for hours, and the longer they slept the harder it was to stay on the couch. Eventually though Punk emerges from the bedroom, and goes straight to the toilet.<p>

"You should have come back to bed, Deano." He says as he flops down beside Dean on the couch, snuggling up to Dean's side. It's an automatic reaction to wrap his arm around Punk's waist, and to kiss him on the head, an automatic reaction that Dean doesn't think too much on, because he's too busy dreading the arrival of Cabana. "Why didn't you?" Punk asks him softly, and the urge to flee comes over Dean. It's clear that Punk's looking to sit and have a conversation about _feelings_, the sort of conversation that Dean hates, and avoids as much as possible, but the snow is still raging, and there's nowhere to go. He's stuck, and if there's one thing Dean hates more than conversations about feelings, it's being stuck.

"I'd guess its cause he wasn't fucking tired anymore, Punkers." Cabana's voice is right behind the couch, and he leans down to press a kiss to Punk's head. "Don't harass the man." He chides, and heads to the bathroom. "Cook like a good little Punkers." He calls from the bathroom, and Punk snorts disdainfully.

"I'm still hurt! My knees still sore!" Punk sounds annoyed, and Dean squeezes him lightly, kissing the side of his head.

"_Still_? You were in bed most of yesterday too, weren't you?" There's a bit of Dean that's annoyed with how softly, _sweetly_ concerned he sounds about Punk just then. A part of him that wants to be cooler and less concerned with the man at his side. The part that remembers that he's the distraction, and that Punk's in love with Cabana, even if he says he's in love with Dean too.

"Yeah, _most_ of the day. I still had to cook because somebody-"

"Was otherwise occupied." Cabana sits down by Punk, and Dean carefully doesn't look at him. If he wants there to be a return to the thinly veiled animosity, he has to be the one to put it back there, Cabana won't, he's too damn laidback.

"Whatever." Punk mutters, and kisses Cabana's cheek absently. "So who's feeding me?" He looks first to Cabana and then Dean, an expectant look on his face.

"You're getting toast." Dean mutters, standing, and leaving the living room, carefully trying to not listen to any conversation that Punk and Cabana might be having, but it doesn't sound like they are talking. There's no noise coming from the living room at all. When Dean pokes his head cautiously round the door to see what's happening, the reason for the silence is made obvious. Cabana is leaning over Punk, kissing him slowly, Punk's arms around his shoulders. There's a strange sour taste in Dean's mouth that has him spitting in the sink, and turning his attention to the cooking bread. This is nothing to do with him. He's the distraction, Punk loves Cabana, Cabana loves Punk, and there are no feelings on Dean's side of this stupid triangle. He'll admit it's a triangle, but it's not a _love_ triangle, it's a messy two-thirds love, one-third fucking one, and he shouldn't have agreed to it in the first place. He should have decided that whilst Punk is fun, and the sex is _amazing_, the fact that he has a lover at home was too much hassle, only, it's not a hassle, not usually. It's only a problem because of being stuck halfway up a mountain in a cabin, and because lying snuggled up with Cabana was _nice_.

"Toast." Dean sets the plate of toast down, and hands a slice to Punk, taking his own and sitting staring at the TV once more. He's steadfastly pretending Cabana doesn't exist, which possibly isn't fair seeing has he kept the man bed ridden yesterday, but it's far easier than examining the fact that he'd like to snuggle closer to Punk, so Cabana can return to petting him. Maybe an hour later, Cabana wanders off, and heads to the shower, leaving Dean alone with Punk.

"You wanna talk to me?" Punk asks softly, and Dean shakes his head. "Deano... I..." Punk sighs, and Dean turns to him.

"What?" He sounds cold, he knows he does, and the little hurt look on Punk's face makes him feel bad about it, but he can't bear the thought of conversing about yesterday. He wants some time away from Cabana, away from Punk, some time alone to evaluate his thoughts.

"You're going to run away." Punk sighs, and rubs at his eyes. "I know you are." He sounds disappointed, and Dean _hates_ that sound. He's always been disappointed by other people, his whole childhood was one horrible disappointment after another, as he grew older; he stopped being disappointed, and started disappointing. It doesn't matter if he's the disappointer or the disappointee he hates that emotion, especially in Punk. Punk has faced just as much disappointment as Dean, and he hates giving Punk more.

"There's a blizzard outside... I ain't going anywhere." Dean snaps, and Punk stares at him silently, his eyes _heavy_ with disappointment. "_What_?" Dean hisses, and Punk shakes his head, looking away, leaving Dean silently thankful for not having to face those eyes anymore.

"I'm no good for this." He stands awkwardly, and hobbles off on his crutches to the bedroom, leaving Dean alone with his thoughts. He doesn't want to be alone with them. He'd been alone with them earlier, and they'd gotten him nowhere. He doesn't imagine that will change this time around. He's not planning on running away physically, emotionally though, he's already gone. When they get back to civilisation, the distraction he provides and receives from Punk is something he's already planning on giving up. Punk has feelings, real feelings, he's already in love, he knows how that feels, and he feels _love_ for Dean. Love isn't something Dean's entirely sure he _knows_ how to feel, and yet there's Punk, someone who's had enough experiences with the shittier parts of humanity to know that there's nothing to be gained from loving someone from them, nothing to be gained from loving Dean, and he does. Punk loves Cabana, Cabana loves Punk. Punk loves Dean, and Dean has absolutely no idea what he feels for Punk. _Falling_ was how he'd described it to Cabana, and falling is exactly how it feels. Then, after all of the Punk based emotional problems, there's the newly tricky, and possibly emotional, problem of him and Cabana's _relationship_. He sighs, and gets off the couch, going after Punk, finding him lying on his back staring at the ceiling. He's going to have to talk some about all this, because if he doesn't his head is going to explode.

"I feel like I'm falling." Dean says calmly from the doorway. Punk doesn't look at him, nothing about his posture changes, but a wry smile finds its way to his lips.

"I know that feeling. Like there's nothing under your feet, and you've no idea what's going to happen? If you'll land on something soft and be safe, or land and be broken apart-"

"Or keep falling forever?" Dean perches on the end of the bed, and strokes Punk's ankle. "Cabana said that's the way love is." Dean keeps gently rubbing Punk's skin, his eyes focused on his own fingers as they caress Punk.

"Yeah... Said the same thing to me years ago." Punk sounds happier, and Dean chances a glance at him. There's a fond twist to his lips that doesn't fade when he looks at Dean. "He drives me mad, you know." Dean laughs, and shakes his head.

"I don't see much evidence of that, Punkin." Dean moves to lie beside Punk, slipping an arm under him, and carefully pulling him closer.

"He's too fucking easy-going. I swear trying to get an argument out of him is like pulling teeth with your bare hands." Punk laughs, and Dean kisses his head. Punk tilts his face up to him, and smiles. "I know it winds you up too. I can see it on your face. You're waiting for him to explode, because that's what happens to us, right?" Dean frowns, but nods. That is the real reason he wants to wind Cabana up, he's waiting for him to be angry with him for something Dean can't control, so he's trying to be sure of the reason for that anger. There've been so many people in his life that he's never been sure what he did wrong with, that now he always wants to be sure of the reason. "I've seen him mad, like three, _maybe_ four times."

"When?" Dean has the feeling that if he has this information nothing much is going to change, because he has the feeling he knows when Cabana will have gotten mad. It'll have been over something Dean's almost entirely certain he doesn't want to cause.

"When I'm hurt. The worst I didn't really see, cause I was pretty out of it, but it was when my skull got fractured." At that Dean kisses Punk's head once more, grateful that his skull has knit back together and is keeping Punk's devious and quick little brain safe again. He smiles slightly, feeling vaguely proud that he'd guessed at what would annoy Cabana, but also resigned to the fact that he is highly unlikely to want to annoy Cabana, because that would mean hurting Punk, and Dean's sure he doesn't want to do that.

"I do wanna runaway from you." Dean sighs, and Punk nods. His eyes are filled with something deadly serious, and Dean's almost afraid of what he's going to say.

"I know you do, and I want to run from you too... Sometimes I wanna run from Bana as well, but away from him there's nothing under my feet." Punk smiles up at Dean, and he frowns back. "You and I, we're pretty similar, and in some ways that means what we have is fucking amazing, but in others it's the fucking worst idea in the World for us to be together." Punk grins, and kisses Dean, his tongue flicking over Dean's lips, and Dean lets him deepen the kiss easily.

"It's a terrible idea because we know what the other's afraid of, and our natural instincts are screaming go for the jugular?" Dean asks once Punk breaks the kiss.

"_Yeah..._" Punk's voice is soft and breathy, and Dean's more than a little smug that he can do that with a single kiss. "We need an intermediary." Punk snuggles up to Dean, a contented little sigh escaping him when Dean starts stroking his back. "We need the ground beneath us, we need someone to catch us, we need someone to-"

"Make us feel safe?" Dean holds back a sigh. He'd known that was what Punk would be implying. He'd said that he wanted both Cabana _and_ Dean, that he wanted to make this little trio work, and Dean's dubious of the success of Punk's desires. For one thing, he's not attracted to Cabana, for another Dean's not exactly got a great track record with relationships in general, nevermind strange three-way ones with a guy he might have some kind of feelings for, and another who he just feels mildly annoyed by, or at least he did. Cabana is posing the biggest stumbling block in Dean's thinking right then.

"Huh? You know, when I saw you weren't watching TV I figured you'd be in bed, but open door, and fully clothed? I'm surprised at your restraint, Punkers." Cabana laughs, and Dean glances away. Shirtless, damp, just showered Cabana, all comfy barrel-chest, and big arms, and horrendously plain jeans that are far too shapeless to show off his thighs. Not that Dean's attracted to Cabana, he just thinks that Punk should pick better jeans for his man to wear.

"Fuck you, Bana! I'm not some kind of sex-starved maniac. I am more than capable of restraint." Punk sniffs indignantly, and Dean can't resist laughing at him. This is literally the longest he and Punk have spent in each other's company without having sex, Punk might not be a sex-starved maniac, but he is certainly very fond of it. "Don't you start on me too!" Punk swats Dean's chest. "You're not supposed to gang up on me... I'm an invalid."

"Aww... Poor Punkers." Cabana lies down on the bed behind Punk, snuggling up tight to his back. "You've got both your men here, and all they do is bully you, and make you cook for them..." Cabana kisses the back of Punk's neck, and Dean lies very still, telling himself that the whole cuddling on the bed, which had been perfectly pleasant, didn't get that little bit better for Cabana's involvement.

"You should replace us, Punkin. Get men more willing to bow to your every whim." Dean laughs, kissing Punk's shaved head. "Because clearly, we're the worst. Right, Cabana?"

"Clearly, Gerb-, uh... Ambrose." Cabana glances up at him, and Dean smiles slightly, getting a strangely soft smile back from Cabana that has Dean staunchly ignoring an odd sort of warmth that's filling his chest. He's not the least bit attracted to Cabana, and he's sticking with that assessment, even if he does have a nice smile.

"Hmmph, at least you realise you're horrible to me." Punk scoffs, wriggling slightly, and Cabana moves so that he's not pressed against Punk. Punk squirms to lie on his back, and an incredibly smug smile stretches his lips. "How much hot water did you use, Bana?"

"Not much... But you'll want a full tank, so leave it like twenty minutes." Cabana's arm snakes under Punk's neck, and Dean turns to lie on his side, pressing against Punk, hiding a smile when Cabana's fingers curl around the back of his neck.

"Twenty minutes?" A mischievous grin finds its way to Punk's lips, and Cabana snorts.

"I don't think so." He kisses Punk's cheek, and stands. "I got emails to deal with... This fucking blizzard is a pain the ass." He glances out of the window and boots up his laptop, sitting at the desk again. "Fucking snowed-in. This is ridiculous, and it's all your fault, Punkers." There's no heat to Cabana's tone, nothing but mild amusement, and Punk turns to Dean, a little smile on his lips.

"You can't blame me for the weather." He mutters to Cabana, and kisses Dean, slow and deep. Whilst Dean loves kissing Punk, it feels weird with Cabana sitting just feet away, and there's a part of him that wants to break this kiss, but Punk is good at over-riding the parts of Dean's brain that fixate on things being a bad idea.

"Pff... Fine, I'll blame Al Gore... Bastard invented Global Warming." Cabana mutters, and Dean breaks Punk's kiss with a laugh.

"The Internet, Cabana." Dean laughs, and Punk stares at him. "Al Gore invented the Internet, not Global Warming."

"Whatever... I knew it was something." Cabana mutters, and a silence falls over the three of them, interrupted solely by the sound of Cabana's fingers clacking at the keyboard.

"Angry typing?" Punk says suddenly, and Dean pauses in his staring out of the window to look at Punk.

"Angry typing?" Dean asks, and Cabana snorts unimpressed.

"Angry typing." Punk smiles, and shifts so that he's lying beside, instead of on top of Dean. "The more the email pisses Bana off, the more he tries to kill the 'puter." Cabana's typing is very _deliberate_, so Dean supposes this particular email has pissed him off immensely, and instead of being happy that Cabana's _finally_ annoyed, he just wants Cabana to give up on emails entirely. "The promoter?"

"Huh, no... They were very understanding." Cabana sighs, and shakes his head. "It's not angry at emails, it's angry at the Internet... The Wi-Fi is shit in this shack."

"Heaven forbid you should have to deal with too slow Internet access, huh Cabana?" Dean laughs. Cabana nods, closes his laptop, and turns to face the bed.

"It's a fucking tragedy... I swear AOL back in the day was better that this shit. If you want a Christmas in a cabin next year, and I get stuck again, I expect better Internet access." Cabana looks frustrated, and Punk makes grabby hands at him.

"C'mere, lemme cuddle you all better." Punk smiles, and Cabana rolls his eyes, but does come to Punk, curling up by him, his head resting on Punk's thigh. "We'll not get stuck in a cabin next year... Hell House is all nice and cosy... We'll get a nice Hanukah bush, and Deano and I'll decorate it like a Christmas tree."

"What the fuck is a Hanukah bush?" Dean asks, carefully staring out of the window once more, ignoring the way Punk's absently petting Cabana's hair, and the sting of jealousy he can feel bubbling bitterly in the back of his throat. He's not even thinking about the implications Punk made for next Christmas, because Dean is refusing to consider a future more than five minutes away.

"Something made up by Christmas tree sellers." Cabana laughs, and Dean glances down at him. He looks pretty content snuggled up on Punk's legs, a smile on his face, his eyes closed. Punk and Cabana do make a good couple, and Dean really doesn't fit in with this picture. He's not the kind of guy who's going to sit and cuddle up in bed, only that's exactly what he's doing. It's what he did all day yesterday, and if he hadn't gotten up in a freaked out strop this morning it's what he'd have been doing all day today as well.

"Rampant commercialism at its finest." Punk laughs, and Cabana snorts, shifting to press a kiss to Punk's stomach.

"Water should be hot again. Go shower, you filthy monkey." Cabana smiles up at Punk, and Punk rolls his eyes.

"Fetch me my crutches then." He waves a hand imperialistically, and Cabana laughs, and stands, grabbing the crutches from the floor, leaving the room with them, then coming back empty handed.

"I'll take him." Dean stands, and scoops Punk up easily enough, surprised when Punk's apparently too shocked at being carried bridal style to protest. "You gonna be okay to shower on your own, Punkin?" Dean asks once he carefully deposits Punk in the bathroom.

"Yeah... I'll be fine. Deano..." He sighs, and Dean smiles slightly. "If there's someone there to catch you, you don't have to fear falling." Punk smiles, and Dean stares at him. He knows Punk isn't talking about showering, but there's a huge part of Dean that wishes all Punk was talking about was slipping on wet tiles. Dean tries to reply, tries to think of something to say to take the hopeful look from Punk's face without hurting him, but he can't find the words. Dean's usually pretty good with a comeback, but that's because usually Dean knows what he thinks or feels, and right now, he has no idea of either. Punk loves him, Dean is falling, Cabana is a great big hair-petting unknown, and Dean _might_ be falling there too, and none of this is _fair_. This trip had been intended to be nothing more than a few days of fucking, making snowmen, and more fucking. Deep emotional conversations, and Cabana had not been part of the plan.

"Get showered." Dean leaves Punk with a kiss, and an unsatisfactory lack of a comeback, leaving the bathroom as Punk starts getting undressed, closing the door behind him. Dean considers his options on what to do next. He could retreat to the bedroom, or the kitchen, or he could bite the bullet, sit on the couch, and watch TV with Cabana. He's no coward, so he sits on the opposite end of the couch, and tries to be as still as possible, only bouncing his knee absently to keep his thoughts in check.

"You wanna talk about this, or are we gonna pretend that yesterday didn't happen? Cause I'm all for that if it'd make this less weird for you." Cabana's not looking at Dean, his eyes focussed on the TV, and Dean stares at him. "Cause I get that it's weird for you... _Scary_..." Cabana sighs, and glances at the bathroom door. The shower is still running, and Dean knows that Punk is more than capable of spending a _long_ time bathing. There's plenty of time for Cabana to try to force him through _another _awkward conversation, and Dean thinks that the one he had earlier with Punk is enough awkward conversing for one day.

"I ain't scared of you." Dean mutters, fidgeting on the couch, his eyes darting around the small room before settling on the window. The snow is _still_ falling, and they all _need_ to get out sooner rather than later. He and Punk _have_ to be back on the road, its Christmas Eve already, and he and Punk have to back in Chicago for a house show on the twenty-sixth, and Cabana needs to go make money, he's already had to blow off or rearrange far too many commitments because of this snow. None of them can afford to stay here too much longer. He gives up his staring at the swirling white, and turns to regard Cabana's profile, the calm relaxed set of his lips, the mild contentment in his eyes. He's far too laid back, and there _might_ be a little bit of Dean's that's scared of that. People aren't this relaxed in his company, other than Punk, but Punk understands him, because Punk is very similar to him. He and Cabana have nothing in common, beyond Punk, so he has no business understanding Dean, no business being relaxed around him, no business making Dean feel relaxed.

"I'm not saying you are... But you're scared of Punk... Scared of the feelings he inspires in you." At this Cabana turns to him, and Dean wants to look away, but can't, no matter how uncomfortable it is to sit still under that gaze, to look away would be admitting that he's afraid, and he's not showing weakness again. Yesterday had been nothing but one long admittance of his weaknesses, and today he's going to be strong, or at least he's going to try. Inside Dean's not feeling overly strong, he's feeling more than a little confused, more than a little distressed, more than a little like he's falling.

"I ain't scared of either one of you." He snaps, and Cabana turns from him with a laugh. "Fuck you, I'm not scared. I've got no reason to be scared. There are no _feelings_." His mind flits to Punk sitting on the couch the first day he'd gotten there, Punk quietly admitting he felt more for Dean, Punk quietly implying, if not saying outright, that he's in love with Dean. There are feelings, and they _do_ scare Dean, but he's not admitting that to anyone, especially not Cabana, because there's something weird going on there too. These last few days have been nothing but weird, confusing and far scarier than Dean would like to admit.

"Okay." Mild and calm, and Dean's beginning to suspect that Cabana is just entirely incapable of being pissed off, always so fucking calm and unruffled. As much as Dean would hate for anything to happen, if Punk were hurt, it'd be interesting to see if only because Cabana would be truly pissed.

"I am not scared." Dean says firmly, and Cabana shrugs.

"If you say so, who am I to argue?" A smile creeps over his lips, and Dean's torn between punching him to try and quell the warmth in his chest that smile inspires, and snuggling up and demanding more petting, more cuddles, more smiles. He's _ruffled_, even if Cabana perpetually refuses to be, and Punk was annoyingly right. Cabana is good at making people feel safe, good at making ruffled feel okay. "C'mere then." Cabana rests his arm along the back of the couch. The invitation he's extending is clear, and Dean's mostly inclined to tell him to fuck off, but Cabana says nothing more. He just sits still, his arm extended along the back of the couch, the spot beside him glaringly empty. It takes Dean a good five minutes of internal debate, but he snuggles up to Cabana's side, his arms wrapping around Cabana's waist. Thankfully, Cabana says nothing, his fingers simply start carding through Dean's hair, and he can pretend that he isn't snuggling Cabana, because that's fact he really doesn't want to think about too much.

When Punk finally emerges from the shower, clean and dressed, he takes the empty spot beside Dean, cuddling up close, his foot on a cushion on the table once more, wisely not commenting on the scene he walked in on. Dean has no doubts that he looks ridiculous, his arms wrapped about Cabana like he was a stuffed animal, Cabana's fingers petting his hair like he was a kitty. If he could see himself from the outside, Dean's sure he'd punch himself in the face for being so pathetic, but he can't, and he's _comfortable_, so it's not a problem, at least not a problem he's willing to address.

"What we watching?" Punk asks after a little bit, Dean turns to glance at him, wondering if he's entirely comfortable with Dean having stolen what is presumably Punk's spot, cuddled between his lovers, because Dean is Punk's lover, and Cabana is Punk's lover, but Dean and Cabana aren't lovers, decidedly aren't lovers. Yet, Dean's snuggled up to him, sandwiched between Punk and his lover.

"Placeholder bullshit till you got here." Dean mutters, and Cabana laughs waving his hand at the remote on the table.

"Pick something, Punkers." Dean had expected Cabana to move and get the remote for Punk at that, but he doesn't seem inclined to budge an inch. Seemingly, Cabana's perfectly content to pet Dean's hair with long slow soothing caresses, and not run after Punk. Punk makes a half-hearted attempt at reaching for the remote, and then the most pitiful noise Dean has ever heard comes from him, as he flaps his hand in the direction of the remote.

"Oh for fuck sake." Dean mutters, moving an arm from Cabana's waist, reaching for the remote, handing it to Punk, and settling back down to wrap around Cabana once more.

"Thank you, Deano... At least someone loves me." Punk laughs, Cabana snorts in amusement, and Dean freezes. His mind whirring in a panic over Punk's comment that's soothed almost instantly by what feels like a kiss to the top of his head and a ruffle of his hair from Cabana. Dean's aware that should cause more panic, but it doesn't, and right then he's not in the mood to be emotionally freaking out.

"Smack him for me." Cabana mutters to Dean, and he shakes his head.

"Too much hassle, he'd whine... There's nothing worse than a whining Punk." Punk makes an indignant noise at that comment, and Cabana laughs, the deep rumble of noise making unexpected heat pool in Dean's stomach, _groin_, just like it had yesterday.

"There's plenty worse than a whining Punk." Punk mutters, and kisses the back of Dean's head. "There's whining Punk with the remote. There's whining Punk with the remote, and a craving for tea. There's whining Punk with the remote, a craving for tea, and a really interesting documentary about the lifecycle of a mayfly about to start. There's whining Punk, with the remote, a craving for tea-"

"Would you like some tea, and some lunch, Punkers?" Cabana interrupts Punk's ramble, and Dean sits up, standing and offering a hand down to Cabana. "You be in charge of sammiches, I'll make the _tea_." Cabana says the word _tea_ like it had personally offended him, and there's part of Dean that agrees with that assessment, Punk's tea is an offence to the taste buds if nothing else. Cabana takes his hand. Dean pulls him to his feet, and tries very hard to ignore the gentle little squeeze Cabana gave his hand as he let it go.

"I'd love some lunch, Bana, why thank you for the kind offer." Punk grins, flicking through the stations, hopefully not finding his threatened mayfly documentary."You're both redeemed in my eyes, now run along, provide me with sustenance, and I'll provide you with entertainment."

In the kitchen, Dean and Cabana work in silence, and Dean's _almost_ grateful for that. Almost but not quite. He'd like there to be some kind of distraction from his thoughts, because they're entirely too distractingly circular and fixated on the two men he's stuck in this cabin with. Thoughts that go around, and around, and around, but never get anywhere.

"You're gonna cut your finger off if you're not careful, Gerb- Ambrose." Cabana's hand wraps around Dean's wrist, stopping the knife he's wielding from slicing off his finger. Dean turns to look at him, only then realising just how _close_ Cabana is standing to him. His presence shouldn't make him feel unnerved in the way it is. It's just Cabana, Punk's other lover, a man that Dean doesn't like all that much, a man who smells really good, and has the nicest set of eyes, and a ridiculously infectious smile. Dean's not sure he can keep this whole denial of emotions thing up for too much longer, because there's that strange feeling of falling coming over him, but like Punk said Cabana is good at making people feel safe. If he falls, there's the sneaking suspicion that Cabana will catch him, and set him on his feet, safe and sound.

"You know, Colt..." Dean says softly, a smile creeping over his lips at the way Colt's name sounds coming from his mouth. "I don't much mind being called Gerbil, at least not by you."

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><p><em>Thank you to my dear <strong>AshJovillette<strong>**,**__** Brokenspell77, and Rebellecherry **for __the reviews. :3_

_Up twenty-third we have **In the Bleak Mid-Winter** - So this three together turned out to be more popular than I was expecting... Some more PunkBanaBrose... (thank you **Rebellecherry** for the pairing name.)_

_Not much is set in stone for these fics - so if you'd like to fire me a song and pairing combo in a PM, I'll have a listen and see what I can come up with. - You have until the 5th! Last fic will be published on the 6th._

**_You can't give me an apple _****_for Christmas _****_like my students did, but you can give me a review! ;)_**

_I'm also considering doing a poll to see if there are any of the one-shots (not tied to any other continuity so 2, 3, 4, 15, 19 and 23 would be out) readers would like to see expanded on - let me know what you think my dears! *\(^O^)/*_


	24. Christmas For Cowboys

_Warnings:Slash (Stone Cold Steve Austin/Dean Ambrose), Smut, Mild Profanity, AU._

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><p>The plains have been Dean's home for as long as he wants to remember. There was a time before them, back when he was a kid. A time when he hid in a closet whilst his momma took men back to their room, and showed them a good time for money. A time when he was cowed, and scared, and wanted to run. It's a time he doesn't like to think about too much, but one that's on his mind tonight. The sky is clear, the plains quite, and by his estimation, it should be about Christmas Eve, if not Christmas day. He remembers the first Christmas he'd spent out of the town he was born in. A Christmas where he wasn't afraid, a Christmas where instead of trembling under a threadbare blanket, he was surrounded by the warmth of other people, but that's all gone. Once more, there's nothing but a thin blanket tossed over his shoulders, and something cold and hard under him. Once more this year he's alone. Once more, everything he knew has been ripped from him, and there's nothing he can do about it.<p>

"Eat up." The voice that drags him from his thoughts is a Texan drawl, and Dean glances over at the bald-headed bounty hunter who had captured him. It'd been his own damn fool stupidity that had got him caught. He should have known better than to try and _pay_ for food. He should have rode into the town, gun drawn and taken it, but he wanted to do something by the book for a change, wanted to make his little brother feel better about taking the extra food. So he'd tried to pay, someone had recognised him. The bounty hunter had been waiting for him outside, and _now_ he's sitting ankles chained together, eating rice and beans by a little campfire, a ways out of town. In the morning, they'll keep heading for the big town, and there, he'll be tried, sentenced, and more than likely hung by the neck.

"I ain't hungry." Dean stares down at the slop in the bowl, and sighs. He needed to get that food back to his little brother. The poor kid's been sick for weeks, and there's no way a doctor's going to treat a bunch of outlaws. They tried sending a letter to one of their brothers who'd gone straight, and moved up North to Chicago. Dean's always thought of himself as a pretty straight-laced kind of guy, but he will admit he was relieved when Phil went up to Chicago. He inspired some feelings in Dean that were a little less than brotherly. He's done a lot of things that have earned him his spot in hell, but sodomy isn't one of them, but for Phil Dean thinks he might have risked it. If Phil got the letter, his response hasn't arrived yet, and so there was nothing they could do for little Seth, but keep him warm, comfortable, and fed. Of them all, Seth has the most compassion. His family came to the United States as immigrants, surviving on as little as possible for far too long. Seth'll do a lot things, mean, nasty, vicious things, but he won't steal food, won't let someone else go hungry just for his sake. It's nice and all, but probably what got him sick in the first place. The kid needs to think of himself more.

"It's gonna be a long day tomorrow... You're gonna regret it if you don't eat it." The bounty hunter says calmly, and Dean snorts, looking away. "Kid..." The man starts, and Dean bristles. He's not a kid, he's a man of seventeen. His age might be low, but his life experience is high. He's a man; he knows he's a man. He's met boys who think they're men because they're over twenty-five, but at the end of the day, they'd turned out to be nothing more than boys forced into pretending to be men by their advanced years. A man is a boy with life experience, and you don't get that by sitting nice and safe in your house. Experience comes from having to struggle to survive. Dean's been a man for far longer than he ever was a _kid_.

"Look, why don't you just bring me back dead? It'd save a hell of a lot of hassle, and we both know that all that's waiting for me is a noose." Dean sets the bowl down on the stones ringing the campfire, and the bounty hunter sighs.

"The name's Steve." He smiles awkwardly, and Dean raises an eyebrow. "I know your name, seems only proper to let you know mine." He takes another spoonful of his food, and regards Dean thoughtfully. "For someone so young, you've got a hell of a list of reasons to be wanted, Mr Ambrose." Dean shrugs at this, and stares into the flames. Cattle rustling from the biggest ranches, a few hold-ups of some of the richest, taking from those with too much always causes the most problems. Poor folk don't have the time to be complaining, if you take a little from them, they'll work hard to get it back themselves, but they're not going to be making the same fuss as those with plenty. _Time is money and money is time_ is what Phil had always said, and it'd taken Dean a few months to work out what he meant, but he thinks he knows now. The greatest luxury money buys is the time to be obsessed with the mundane. Poor people don't have the time to be fussing; they've got to keep working to get ahead. The rich have the time to obsess over every cent, so they do.

"Well, _Steve_, now we're properly acquainted." Dean mutters, staring into the flames, his mind bubbling with ideas on how to get away. He's not going to be hung before the New Year; he's not going to be hung period. He's going to escape, and he's going to get back to his brothers. It's just a matter of how to get away from this bounty hunter.

"C'mon kid, _Dean_, eat. It's a long ways back to where we need to be." Steve sighs, taking another bite, and Dean relents. He's hungry, and he doesn't think this bounty hunter is the type to poison him. If he were going to kill Dean, he'd have done it sooner. "You're still a kid... They might be lenient on you." Steve says suddenly, and Dean scoffs. There's no way they're going to be lenient, but it's nice of this fool bounty hunter to hold out false hope.

"I'm gonna be hung, _Steve_." Dean sneers the man's name, watching his eyebrow twitch. It seems like this bounty hunter had expected a mite more respect from Dean, which is too bad really. "We both know that all you're doing is bringing a _kid_ to his death." Dean smiles cheerfully, and returns to eating. There's a bitter air of dark irritation hanging over them, and Dean's far more comfortable with it than the false friendliness Steve had been aiming for earlier.

"We're turning in." Steve says once they've eaten, and Dean nods absently. Whilst eating he'd formulated a plan, and this is the perfect time to put it into action. "You're over here. I'll be right there, so don't try anything." Steve points to the two bedrolls he's just laid out, and Dean jingles the chains around his ankles slightly, reminding Steve that he's shackled and can't really try anything any way. However, Dean fully intends to try something, fully intends to achieve something, and fully intends to be out of Steve's company long before dawn.

They lay down together, Steve with his back turned to Dean, and Dean staring up at the stars, thinking of his brothers, of little Seth hoping that his cough hasn't gotten worse, of big tough Roman who'll be doting on Seth, of Phil and whatever he left them behind for in Chicago. There's more in the gang, but they're not important to Dean, they're not his family, they're not his brothers. Once it seems like Steve's settled, Dean turns to lie on his side, staring at the back of the man's head.

"Go to sleep, quit planning where to stick the knife." Steve snaps, and Dean laughs.

"I ain't planning on sticking anything in you... But if you wanna stick things in me... Well, it's been a while." Dean laughs, and the bounty hunter groans.

"You're a kid. Ain't no one ever stuck you with anything." He snaps once more, sounding like any tired old man. Dean moves closer and starts stroking Steve's back, his touches light and teasing, his hips moving closer to Steve's own. "I ain't interested, son. Stop it." Steve keeps his back turned, and Dean smirks at the back of the man's head, his fingers trailing up Steve arm, his hips rocking against Steve's ass, rubbing his cock against it.

"C'mon... You're out here, all alone... _Any_ hole's gotta start looking appealing." Dean pitches his voice low and soft, trying to mimic the voice Phil would use to do this. It's possibly one of the reasons Dean had that unnatural interest in Phil, he'd never shy from doing _anything_ to keep the gang safe and together; devotion might be a strange turn on, but it's one of Dean's apparently. Since Phil left it's been strange how _everyone_ else had to step in to fill his shoes, but they've been managing okay until now. Dean can't say he's surprised by being the first to be _caught_. He's reckless in his selflessness, and cautious in his selfishness. If he'd been in town for his own benefit, he'd have never gotten taken in by this bounty hunter.

"I ain't interested in you, kid." Steve's voice gives away how tempted he is though, and Dean smirks to himself.

"Well... One mouth is as good as any other isn't it?" He moves and presses a few kisses to the back of the bounty hunter's neck. "I'm real good with my mouth." He chuckles at the slight shiver that runs through Steve. There's an annoyed huff, and the older man turns to lie on his back. "See... I _knew_ you'd be interested."

"Just put that mouth to other uses." He says gruffly, and Dean nods, moving down to open the man's pants. He draws his flaccid cock out, and starts suckling on the head, then he lets it drop, and licks his palm. He takes a hold of the bounty hunter's cock, and starts jacking him, licking at the head every so often, his eyes downcast, focussing on his work. Dean's mind is working just as hard as his mouth and hand, trying to guess where the key for the chains on his ankles are, trying to decide if it's worth stealing the horse, or if making his getaway on foot is a better idea. "You gonna suck it or not?" Steve asks after a while, and Dean takes his now erect cock in whole. He might not be going to hell for sodomy, but if blowjobs are a sin, Dean'll have front row seats in the circle of hell that's reserved for that particular act. His technique isn't perfect, but it is efficient, and Dean almost enjoys sucking cock. It's a strangely meditative act. Nothing matters but the cock in your mouth, and the man it's attached to, the only goal is to get that man to come. Once that's happened, everything else is up for grabs, but whilst sucking cock, that cock is the only important thing in the World. When Steve comes, he lies on his back, panting slightly for a few moments, then he yawns. "No too bad, Dean." A smile settles on his lips, and he pats the bedroll beside him. "C'mon we've an early start." Dean lies down on the other bedroll, mildly surprised when Steve turns to lie on his stomach, one arm thrown over Dean. There'd been a little bit of Dean that had wanted at least the offer of a helping hand, but that'd only delay what needs to happen next, so Dean waits patiently for a while, calmly regarding the stars. Somewhere else, somewhere probably quite faraway his brothers will be doing the same thing, hoping he's safe, and Dean intends to be safe. He's never had people who worry about him before, and he's not losing them over some stolen cows, and a couple of pearl necklaces.

It doesn't take Steve too long to fall asleep, his snores are loud, and Dean quietly slips out from under his arm, sitting up to consider where the key to the chains might be hidden. He's heard of all kinds of secret hiding spots, but he thinks he knows where Steve's might be. The heels on Steve's boots seem a little too much like vanity for a man like Steve. Based on the little Dean's seen of him, this bounty hunter doesn't seem the type to go in for style over practicality. Therefore, Dean's none too surprised to find a hidden compartment in one of them, the key sitting there waiting patiently for him. He opens the shackles quickly, and slips them off, grabbing some of Steve's supplies, but nowhere near all, Seth's voice had protested in his head and he'd only taken a little, and the horse. It's a foolish piece of sentimentality, but before he makes his getaway, Dean writes out a little message in the dirt, a quickly scrawled _Merry Christmas Steve_.

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><p><em>Thank you to my dear <strong>guest, Hyrde, AshJovillette, and littleone1389<strong> for the reviews. :3_

_Up twenty-fourth we have **Christmas for Cowboys **a request by **Hyrde**, I can only hope this was kind of what you were hoping for... I'm not sure it is, but it's where my brain went with it. _

_Last chapter is tomorrow - thank you to those who made suggestions. I'm sorry if I didn't write your request. (I should have pm'ed you to explain why, or to ask for clarifications - I'm usually pretty good about that.) Tomorrow's fic is set in stone, and some of you will enjoy it - I hope... Though I always hope that... It's like my perpetual hope that someone will enjoy what I've written... I'm rambling... I'll stop now._

**_You can't give me an apple _****_for Christmas _****_like my students did, but you can give me a review! ;)_**

_I'm also considering doing a poll to see if there are any of the one-shots (not tied to any other continuity so 2, 3, 4, 15, 19 and 23 would be out) readers would like to see expanded on - let me know what you think my dears! *\(^O^)/*_


	25. Walking in a Winter Wonderland

_Warnings: Slash (Colt/Ambrose/Punk), Mild Profanity, Fluff, Smut, Sequel to **In the Bleak Mid-Winter**** (Ch. 23)**_

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><p>That night Colt sleeps in the middle of the bed, he didn't even bother pretending to that he was going to let Dean try to sleep without being held. Dean had gotten into bed on the left side, lain down with his back turned, and Colt's arm had snaked under his shoulders, and tugged him over so that his back was pressed against Colt's side. Punk had curled up with his head on Colt's chest as appeared to be his habit, and there'd been a brief conversation of how the hell they were supposed to get off the mountain if the snow <em>still<em> hadn't stopped tomorrow, but no one had any good answers. Explaining why both the Champ, and one third of the Shield couldn't make the house show on the twenty-sixth was going to be painful if they were still stuck. Colt had offered optimism in the face of Dean and Punk's pessimism, saying that even if the snow didn't stop till the twenty-sixth, the flight would be short, and they'd still be able the show no problem. It'd been hard to argue against the groundless hope with facts, because facts don't have Colt's infectious smile. All the facts have is more snow, and Dean is sick of snow, Colt's smile on the other hand, he's getting pretty fond of.

Christmas morning sees Dean's normal waking time come and go with Dean barely noticing. He'd woken up to find that at some stage in the night he'd turned around in his sleep, and his ear pressed to Colt's chest once more, opposite him, Punk is fast asleep, a _tiny _little smile on his lips, and Dean's hand in his. At some still too early time Dean wakes up once more, shifting slightly earning an unimpressed groan from Colt.

"Go back asleep, Gerbil." He mutters from above Dean, and once more, something that feels like a kiss is pressed to Dean's hair. He's not sure if he objects to Colt kissing him. He _thinks_ it's happened twice now, and in all honesty, Dean _thinks_ he like it. There's something strangely warm that trickles through his body at those suspected kisses, something that makes him feel incredibly safe, something that has Dean falling asleep once more.

"Rise and shine, you lazy pair of brats, I come bearing gifts on this day of heathen celebration." Colt's voice wakes Dean up, and he lies still for a few seconds trying to work out what's going on, because he's cuddled up to someone. If Dean's learnt nothing over these last few days, it's that there's only one person he doesn't mind cuddling, and being cuddled by whilst he's sleeping, but that person isn't in bed with him, and his arms are wrapped around someone's body with their arms wrapped tight around Dean. He opens his eyes to find Punk in his arms, blinking owlishly, and looking just as confused.

"You didn't kick me." Punk sounds incredibly surprised, and if he's honest, Dean is too. He always kicks Punk in his sleep, and he's not sure why he hadn't, but he figures that it must have been because Colt can't have been out of bed for too long.

"Nope, no kicking, no fussing, no nightmares from either of you. I'm very proud of you both. Now sit up, and take this." Colt sounds wryly amused, and Dean does as he's bid, detangling himself from Punk, and sitting up in bed. He's surprised to find himself in the middle of the bed. When they'd fallen asleep, Colt had been there, and Dean supposes that he must have moved over to the middle when Colt got up. Dean takes the tray from Colt, and Punk sits up too, grinning at the food covering it.

"Pancakes... The only food stuff that Bana can make well." Punk sounds unreasonably pleased with pancakes, but if he's honest, Dean's pretty pleased too. He likes pancakes, and Punk is something of a connoisseur when it comes to them, if he's saying Colt's are good, then they're good pancakes and that's all there is to it.

"I'd resent that if it wasn't true." Colt sets a cup of coffee down on the nightstand by Dean, and a cup of tea by Punk. He wanders off, and comes back with his own mug of something, and a little bottle of maple syrup. "Alright then, Merry Christmas brats." He takes one of the plates of pancake, and sits cross-legged on the end of the bed.

"Breakfast in bed for Christmas? Aww... How sweet of you, Bana." Punk grins, and starts eating, a happy smile on his face. Dean glances up from his food to look at Colt, and isn't too sure what to make of the expression on his face. It's something soft and kind in his eyes, the same face he'd worn whilst watching Punk sleep the first day Dean had gotten to the cabin. It's kind of _flustering_, so rather than deal with it, Dean starts eating.

"They okay, Gerbil?" He asks, and Dean nods, not looking up, not trusting the heat he can feel on his cheeks to be imagined. "Good." Colt seems content with the nod, and Dean sneaks a little glance at him, finding him watching Punk, a soft little smile on his lips. When Dean turns to look at Punk, his face is carefully blank, and Dean has the feeling the two of them were having an unfair long term couple no talking conversation about him. It's not fair, but he supposes he should expect it, Colt and Punk have been together for a long time, they have a deeper connection than Dean and Punk, but Punk seems to want to introduce Dean as a permanent member of their relationship. Punk loves Colt _and_ Dean; he wants a relationship with them both. Dean doesn't think Punk would mention that to Dean without having discussed it with Colt first, and Colt seems to be pretty okay with the idea, which is _nice_, but Dean has no idea how he feels about the whole thing. He's slightly overwhelmed at the thought of a relationship. He hadn't been expecting one with Punk in the first place; he'd been pretty happy with their casual fucking, but these last few days have been so very good. They've been the exact opposite of what Dean had expected, and that's somehow made them better. There's a strange tranquillity in him that he's never experienced, and it's not something he thinks he can really explain, even to himself. This right now, sitting in bed eating breakfast is essentially the nicest Christmas he'd ever had, but it's completely mundane and uninteresting by most people's standards. Yet for Dean this mundane moment is _precious_. It's something that, even if what Punk wants doesn't come to fruition, Dean will treasure for its simplicity.

"Shower's mine." Punk mutters once he's finished eating. Colt starts gathering the dirty plates, and puts them on the tray, watching Punk carefully.

"You're moving better." He comments, and Dean agrees, Punk is acting like his knee isn't bothering him as much as it has been, which is a relief, because it really did look like it was causing him quite a bit of trouble last night as he'd hobbled to bed.

"It's feeling better." Punk grins, he's still using the crutches, but he's looking a lot more stable.

"Make sure you don't overdo it, Punkin." Dean's surprised by the soft concern in his voice, and he _thinks_ he might need to accept that he's worried over Punk's wellbeing, worried about him being hurt, because the idea of Punk in pain makes something in Dean's chest clench tight.

"I've no intention of overdoing it, Deano... In fact I've every intention of under-doing it all day." Punk laughs, and Colt rolls his eyes.

"Go shower, but don't use all the hot water. Dean still needs to get washed." There's that soft smile on Colt's lips again as he turns to Dean, and Dean wants to duck his head from that expression, but his face doesn't listen to him, it stays turned to Colt, and his rebellious lips stretch into a smile. Punk makes an odd noise that's depressingly like an _aww_ at them, and Dean turns to him with a glare.

"What? _What_? I'm being a good Punk!" He laughs, his eyes sparkling with mirth.

"There is no such thing as a _good_ Punk." Dean scoffs, and Colt nod sagely, muttering _here, here_. "See, even Colt agrees with me. You're a wicked, _devious_, little thing, Punkin." Dean moves over the bed, and kneels on it in front of Punk, his hand reaching to catch the back of his neck, pulling him into a kiss. Colt makes an odd noise behind them, and Dean cracks an eye open to see him leaving the bedroom with the dirty dishes.

"Poor Bana." Punk chuckles when he breaks the kiss, and Dean frowns, his hands framing Punk's face, his thumbs stroking over Punk's eyebrows.

"I offended him? I shouldn't kiss you in front of him?" Dean's confused, and he'd got the feeling that Colt was okay with this whole thing, he's kissed Punk in front of him before, so he doesn't get why Colt wouldn't be okay with it now.

"Ha, you really need to learn what that noise means." Punk grins, kissing Dean again. "That noise means _I want this, I want you_." Punk smiles, and pecks Dean's nose. "It's a good noise, trust me." There's an indulgent grin on Punk's face, and Dean finds himself trusting Punk's words far more than he thinks he should. "Go help wash the dishes. Endear yourself to Bana." Punk laughs, hobbling along far quicker than he has the whole time Dean's been in the cabin.

"I've been sent to be of assistance." Dean calls out as he walks into the kitchen, and Colt turns to him with a smile.

"Really? Dishtowel's over there, you be in charge of drying." Colt's still scrubbing at a pot, and Dean starts to work.

"You want the shower after him, or will I take it?" Dean asks after a while, he'd been watching Colt scrubbing at this pot the whole time, distracted by the muscles in his arms moving under his skin. For a man Dean wasn't even attracted to not so long ago, he's finding himself staring at Colt a lot lately.

"Showered before I started burning all the pots." Colt mutters, picking the pot out of the water to examine it critically. "Jesus... This is why I never cook. Thing should not stick so well to other things." He sighs, and Dean smirks at his back.

"Want me to take over for a bit?" Dean offers, leaning against the counter by the sink. Colt shakes his head, and Dean hops up to sit on the counter, swinging his feet, thinking of nothing much in particular. "What you wanna do today?" The snow has eased up some, but they'd decided last night to travel early tomorrow morning, they'll make the various commitments they have to, and get one more day away from the real world. Strangely, that's the thing Dean's most happy about. He gets one more day with Punk and Colt, and the rest of reality being kept far, _far_ away by them being up a mountain.

"I _think_ Punkers has some kind of _plans_ for today, so no doubt we'll be going along with whatever it is he's decided we're doing-"

"Because we're completely, and utterly incapable of saying no to him." Dean finishes for Colt, and he nods with a laugh. "He knows how irresistible we find him." Dean sighs, and Colt smirks wryly.

"He does, and uses it to his advantage. _Finally_. I thought that lump of black was gonna be on this pot forever." Colt rinses the last pot out, and hands it to Dean, drying his hands on the towel over Dean's arm.

"Deano! Shower's free!" Punk's voice is unexpected; Dean doesn't think he's ever seen Punk take a shower that quick unless he's had to catch a flight. He finishes with the dishes, then trails along behind Colt towards the bedroom. "Shower. Go on, get a move on." Punk is standing in the bedroom, naked, and Dean's eyes skim over Punk's body. He's distractingly beautiful.

"You're naked, Punkers." Colt comments dryly.

"So I am..." Punk smirks, and hops up to sit on the desk. "Go shower Deano... Join me in cleansed nudity." He laughs, and Dean heads to the shower, a part of him suspecting that whilst he'd not wanted to have sex with Colt in the other room on the first day he'd been there, when presented with a naked Punk, Colt's resolve might not be as strong.

Once he's showered, Dean goes back to the bedroom, with nothing more than a towel slung around his hips, to find Punk still sitting on the desk, Colt standing between his legs, kissing his neck as Punk's hands knead at Colt's shoulders. Dean _almost_ wants to turn around and leave them to it, but Punk spots him, and pushes Colt away gently, a subtly enticing smile on his lips.

"_Finally_." Punk laughs, and Dean comes closer, not sure what to do with himself. There's a glint in Punk's eyes, something mischievous and bright, something that makes Dean think that whatever is going to happen will be fun if nothing else. "C'mere." Punk makes grabby hands at Dean, and Colt moves away from him, letting Dean stand between Punk's legs. "Kiss me." He demands, and Dean obliges him, kissing Punk as fiercely, and possessively as he usually does, forgetting about Colt's presence entirely, until Colt's hand skims down his back, and his lips brush over Dean's bare shoulder.

"_This okay_?" He whispers in Dean's ear, and all Dean can do is moan into the kiss Punk is keeping him occupied with. "_You two look fucking incredible together... I've never seen him kiss anyone else before, never seen anyone else's hands on him, never knew I wanted to till you came along, Gerbil_." Colt's voice is low and soft, pitched so only Dean can hear, and with each word, there's more barely there kisses dusted over Dean's shoulders. He can't keep the soft moans from escaping him at the faint feel of those kisses. "_I wanna kiss you... Can I_?" The question throws Dean. He pulls away from Punk's lips sharply, turning to Colt, and grabbing his head, pulling him into a kiss that's broken before it's begun. "Nuh-uh... Not how we do this." Colt's hands card through Dean's hair, and he gathers him close. "Properly. We do this nice and proper." Colt grins, and Dean stares at him in confusion.

"I was-" The first press of Colt's lips against his is strange, but Dean supposes that kissing anyone is strange. It's a weird idea, kissing. The thought of lips against lips, tasting another person's mouth, playing some kind of strange tongue equivalent to thumb wars, whoever thought it up was possibly insane, but it's not a bad thing. Kissing Colt is not a bad thing. It's far from bad; it's good, very good. He's a very different kisser to Punk, with Punk it generally feels like a war, like you have beat him down into submission to make him play nice, but kissing Colt is like lying bed, and being petted. He's gentle, _coaxing_, less a battle, and more an invitation to play. It's a _proper_ kiss, and Dean wants more of them.

"That wasn't too weird was it?" Colt asks him, and Dean stares at him blankly for a few seconds before diving in for a second kiss. Behind him, he can hear Punk chuckle, and then Punk's chest is plastered against Dean's back.

"_He's a good kisser, isn't he_?" Punk whispers in Dean's ear, and through the gentle, teasing kiss, Dean makes a vague noise of agreement. "_Kisses from Bana are the best._" Punk sounds incredibly smug, and Colt stops kissing Dean to laugh.

"You dropping hints, Punkers?" One of Colt's hands moves from around Dean to guide Punk to Dean's side, and Colt kisses him. Unlike the few occasions Dean's seen them kiss before, this time he watches, pays attention for research purposes, he wants to learn something of Colt's technique, because if nothing else, Dean wants to be able to give kisses like Colt's. Soft, _giving _kisses that take your breath away, and leave you wanting more.

"Me? Dropping hints? I was making a casual observation, isn't that right, Deano?" Punk's arms snake around Dean's waist, and he snuggles up to him.

"Casual observation?" Colt laughs, and the one hand still in Dean's hair starts moving, carding through the strands. "On what? My kissing prowess... Pff." Dean nods vaguely and leans forward, catching Colt's lips, kissing him for a third time.

"Prowess, very much prowess." Dean confirms when he breaks the kiss, and Punk snickers, a grin on his face.

"This is nice..." He sounds incredibly happy, and Dean can't really say he blames Punk for that, he's pretty happy right then too. This is possibly the best Christmas ever, and not a Christmas tree, or a scrap of wrapping paper in sight.

"_This_?" Colt seems fidgety though, and Dean isn't sure why until he remembers Punk's bad knee. Colt will no doubt be thinking that all this standing up isn't good for Punk, and will want to relocate to somewhere more horizontal.

"Cuddles, kisses, my men making out... Though _nice _doesn't quite cover that one." Punk laughs, and glances over at Colt, pecking him on the cheek. "Bed? Will that placate your mother hen instincts? My knee really is feeling a lot better." Punk pulls away from them both, and settles on the bed, the smile on his face, soft and inviting.

"It might be feeling better now." Colt holds Dean tighter, and kisses him again. "Left or right?" He points to the bed, and then focuses on Punk again. "But if you push it, it'll get worse again. You need to _rest _to let injuries heal, Punkers."

"We don't get time for that, Colt." Dean smiles awkwardly, and Colt sighs, resting his chin on Dean's shoulder. "Left." Dean pulls away, and settles on Punk's left side, whilst Colt flops down on the right.

"Fucking WWE... Once your contract's done, I'm not letting you out of bed for weeks." He turns to lie on his side, and runs a hand down Punk's body as he speaks.

"Ooo, _kinky_." Punk laughs, and Dean grins, following Colt's lead, and resting his hand just above Punk's groin, his fingers caressing the skin of his stomach.

"I meant so you could heal." Colt scoffs, and Dean laughs.

"I'd have meant it for completely different reasons." Dean leers at Punk, and captures his lips, kissing him fiercely, completely differently to how he kissed Colt, because Punk is completely different to Colt.

"No doubt." Colt mutters dryly, and Dean smirks at him, blowing him a kiss that has Colt rolling his eyes.

"So... I think I can see where this is going... And you're entirely too dressed for it, Colt." Dean smiles at Colt, and Punk laughs.

"I concur! Clothes should be removed post-haste that there may be a commencement of-" Colt interrupts Punk's increasingly triumphant sounding declaration with a kiss, and Dean shakes his head. He's tried to interrupt Punk mid-rant with kisses before, but all Punk does is keep ranting through the kiss, yet Colt has the power to completely silence Punk, to reduce him to this soft pliant creature. It's kind of awe-inspiring how quickly Colt can override Punk's natural fondness for the sound of his own voice.

"Fine, fine... How are we doing this?" Colt gets off the bed, and starts getting undressed. Dean doesn't bother fighting the urge to lick his lips like a hungry hyena, clambering carefully over Punk to kiss Colt once his shirt is off, his hands running down Colt's back, and under the waistband of his pants.

"I'm good with a show." Punk sounds a lot like he really would be perfectly content to watch Dean and Colt paw at each other, and make out, but Dean thinks that'd be denying him. If it wasn't for Punk, there wouldn't be this pawing, so he should be rewarded for the actions that led to this situation.

"_I wanna watch you fuck him, Colt_." Dean whispers in Colt's ear, and he laughs.

"_Sure... But what about you_?" Colt's chin is digging into Dean's shoulder as he whispers back, his hands groping Dean's ass, knocking the towel from around his waist, making it pool onto Dean's calves.

"Hey, let me in on the planning." Punk's voice comes from behind Dean, his body pressed against Dean's back, sandwiching him between Punk and Colt. "What have we decided? Cause you, Mr Cabana, look like a man who's made a decision."

"That I have, Punkers." Colt pulls Punk closer, pressing Dean more firmly to his chest, and then over Dean's shoulder Punk and Colt start to kiss. It's not a great place to observe them, but the soft sounds of them kissing are going straight to Dean's cock.

"And our plan is?" Punk asks once the kiss between he and Colt is broken, Punk's familiar warmth is seeping into Dean's back, but it's eclipsed by the unfamiliar heat radiating from Colt, and Dean would almost like for the plan to be paused so that he can experience this a little longer.

"I want..." Dean trails off. He's not sure how to phrase his desires, not sure how to say _I want you both to touch me, to kiss me, to smother with your presence, I want you to never leave me alone, I want one of you, both of you preferably, with me at all times_. This has all happened far too fast, Dean knows it has. Once he's returned to the real world he's going to think about this all too much, and he's going to run, so he wants to keep both Punk and Colt close to him for as long as possible. In this moment, pressed between them, he feels _safe_, he feels protected, and as soon as he gets the chance to think about that, he'll decide he can't have it, because he doesn't deserve it.

"You want us to touch you?" Punk murmurs in his ear. "Want us to kiss you? Worship you?" Punk's teeth graze the side of Dean's neck as he talks, and a shiver works its way through Dean's body.

"Is that what you want?" Colt asks him, and Dean nods, reaching behind him awkwardly and drawing Punk into a kiss. "Then you wanna watch me fuck Punk? That's the plan?" Dean nods enthusiastically, throwing Punk off from the nips, licks, and kisses he'd been laying over Dean's shoulders and back.

"I'd _just_ watch you fuck him, but Punk's idea sounds good to me." Dean grins, and Punk snorts, kissing the side of Dean's head then moving away slightly.

"I get fucked out of this? It's a good plan." He mutters, his breath lower on Dean's back, and his lips press against Dean's shoulder blade, his tongue following the bone up Dean's back. "C'mon Deano, middle of the bed. We'll take care of you." Punk's lips brush over the skin of Dean's back softly, his breath warm and damp. Colt steps away, finishes getting undressed, and makes an odd hand gesture at Punk. Dean feels the warmth of Punk behind him move, then Colt's hands are on his shoulders, skimming up his neck, and into his hair. There's a brief moment where all Colt does is stare at him, and a smile spreads over his lips.

"If I tell you how hot you are, and how all this time I've been wanting to get you both naked and in bed, you'll freak out, won't you?" He laughs, and something in Dean starts to panic, something that's been far too hurt, far too often is screaming that this is all a trick, and once Colt and Punk have had their fun he's going to be kicked out, but then Colt kisses him. Colt's kiss silences that voice. Colt's kiss is soft, reassuring, a kiss unlike any other Dean's ever had, a kiss that's heavy with promises of more in the future if only Dean will stay and accept them. Colt kisses with the promise that if Dean doesn't run, Colt will kiss him for eternity.

"_Best_ kisses in the World, right?" Punk chuckles from Dean's side, and all Dean can do is nod. He doesn't trust his voice to say anything right then. "C'mere." Punk's hand is on Dean's cheek, turning him to face Punk, letting Punk take Dean's lips in a kiss that's completely different to how Punk usually kisses him. A kiss that's clearly been learned from Colt, a kiss that carries the same promise as Colt's. With careful manoeuvring, they guide Dean to the middle of the bed, and start to touch him, kisses over his chest, strokes along his legs, hands and lips over every inch of skin, every scar, every imperfection on Dean's hide included, not one flaw is missed in this _worship_ of him. By the time Punk reaches for the bottle of lube in the nightstand, Dean's a panting mess. He's not sure how or when, but he is sure that all he needs is to come. Colt smiles at him, his hand lingering on Dean's cheek.

"You alright? You enjoying this?" Colt's voice is soft, _concerned_, and Punk shoots him an incredulous look as though he can't fathom why Colt is asking this stupid question, because it is a _stupid _question. Dean's a desperate mess, he's more than alright, he's more than enjoying this, and he's less than able to vocalise his response, all he manages is a vague nod. Punk tosses the lube bottle to Colt, and hovers over Dean.

"Just hands, or do you want me to blow you, Deano?" Punk asks, a grin on his face, and as tempting as the idea of coming down Punk's throat is, he wants to feel Punk and Colt's hands on him some more.

"Hands, just hands this time... Next time your mouth, Punkin." Dean traces Punk's thin bottom lip, flicking at the loop of silver over it, and smiles when Punk's tongue darts out to lap at Dean's thumb. Dean opens his mouth to speak, but his voice is robbed by the gentle caress of Cabana's lube coated finger over his asshole.

"He doesn't bottom." Punk chides Colt softly, and Colt chuckles, leaning over to talk into Dean's ear.

"I won't hurt you, _but_ if you're not into it, you're not into it." He shrugs, and Dean stares at him. "When the time comes, you can top me." Colt smiles cheerfully, and Dean shakes his head. He can't see himself topping Colt. Topping Punk is about proving he can do something for someone else, he tops Punk because Punk much prefers to be taken, and Dean much prefers to take, but he can't imagine taking Colt. He's a source of comfort, and Dean wants to be able to offer something to him, even something as trivial as taking his cock.

"I'm not, not into it... I'm just..." Dean sighs, unsure what to say. He's not been topped too often, and whilst he's enjoyed it well enough, it'd never been for him, it'd never been with the right top. Dean has the sneaking suspicion he might have found the right top in Colt.

"_In_experience or _bad_ experience?" Colt's voice is heavily laden with protectiveness, and Dean smiles at him.

"Inexperience, no one's ever hurt me like that." Dean smiles, and Colt's eyes narrow, but it's true enough, of all the shit that's happened to him, rape isn't one of them.

"You sure? There's no point in hiding things from me... They always come out." Colt looks pointedly at Punk, and there's a glimmer of apology in Punk's eyes as Colt leans over and kisses him. "It's best to tell me straight away so you don't get hurt any more than you already are." Something in Dean's chest sparks up with flames of protectiveness. Based on the way Colt said those words, on the how Punk's acting, someone in the past hurt Punk, and hurt him badly.

"Just inexperience, I promise." Dean smiles, and Punk kisses his shoulder. "Gimme a little warning next time is all." Colt leans down and kisses him, whispering softly _I'm gonna touch you _as his fingers brush Dean's hole once more.

"That warning enough?" There's a softly kind smile on Colt's lips, and Dean's sure that wasn't anywhere near warning enough for something so unexpectedly sweet and gentle. Sex for Dean is usually something driven by need, but he can't say he's surprised that with Colt it's slow and careful. It's probably why Punk has been with him for so long. There's something about Colt's caress that's deliberate, _soothing_, but riddled with passion, a burning underlying desire to _feel_, to _know_, to understand through every touch, every word, every action. Even these little brushes over Dean's hole are brimming with understanding, somehow Colt _knows_ what Dean wants, what he needs, and he's under no illusions that for Punk Colt is just as knowledgeable. He's the counter-point of calm to the maelstrom of chaos that make up both Punk and Dean, possibly the one person on the planet who _gets _them, who understands without needless words how to touch them, how to talk to them, how to treat them without riling them up or scaring them off. It's undeniably the greatest Christmas gift ever that Punk has given Dean in making it clear that Punk wants to share what he's found in Colt with Dean. Punk's hand wraps around Dean's cock, stroking it quickly, his fingers creating a tight channel, moving with urgency, moving in the same way Dean would touch himself, moving exactly opposite to how Colt would.

"Feels good?" Punk asks, a hint of smug self-satisfaction in his voice, and it takes all of Dean's mind and focus to be able to nod at Punk. _Good _is insufficient to describe how this feels, good is paltry to describe how their hands on him feel. The English language lacks the words to describe how it feels to have Colt teasing his hole, to have Punk's hand jacking him off, to have them caressing his legs and chest. Punk had asked if Dean wanted them to _worship_ him, and in that moment that word is the closest fit. When he comes, it's a sudden, overwhelming sensation that blanks out everything around him but the feelings of blissful release.

"You okay?" Colt's voice drifts to Dean in his post-orgasmic haze, and he grins. Okay doesn't even come close to how Dean's feeling, and all that from only having Punk's hand on his cock, and Colt's fingers teasing his ass. It's only going to get better. When they progress to the next level, it's going to be incredible. Sex with Punk already had Dean fumbling for words to describe it, but sex with Punk _and_ Colt may require him to make up some new ones.

"He's fine!" Punk sounds desperately close, his own hand around his cock, and Colt laughs, kissing Dean's forehead, moving to settle between Punk's spread legs.

"Patience, Punkers." Colt laughs, and Dean turns his head to watch them. He's not sure if he'll be able to come again so soon, but he's sure he wants the image of Colt fucking Punk to add to the spank bank.

"A trait never found in men." Punk snaps, and Colt leans down to kiss him, one of those breath stealing, heart-racing kisses that leaves Punk far more tranquil, a lazy smile creeping over his lips. "Cheat." He sounds gloriously breathy, and Dean shifts a little closer, pressing a kiss to Punk's shoulder.

"_Cheat_? What the fuck did I do that counts as cheating? I only kissed you." Colt mutters, moving away from Punk, and looking around the bed for something.

"That _is_ cheating." Dean mutters in Punk's ear, turning his face to him, and Punk nods with a laugh.

"There's no point in trying to explain that to him though, he doesn't get it." Punk kisses Dean softly, a kiss that's a pale mimicry of one of Colt's kisses, and so very different to how kissing Punk usually is, but Dean thinks is somehow better. For all he adores the animalistic passion he usually shares with Punk, this softer sensuality is more appealing in that moment.

"Well, he can't kiss himself." Dean smiles at Punk, pecking the tip of his nose, and Colt makes a frustrated noise above them.

"Where the fuck did you leave the lube?" The question is clearly directed to both Punk and Dean, but Dean has absolutely no idea where it could be. The last he saw of the little bottle was Punk handing it to Colt, and then all of Dean's attention was on the feeling of Punk and Colt's hands on his body.

"_Lube_?" Punk sounds just as confused, and he starts patting the bed beside him. "Look under the pillow, Deano."

"Why would... You know what, nevermind. Under the pillow, Gerbil, I'll check the floor." Colt moves from between Punk's legs, and leans over the side of the bed, whilst Punk seems to be enjoying the view, and Dean's rooting around under the pillows. His hand closes around the little lube bottle, and he hands it to Punk, then runs his hand over Colt's ass. "Did you find it?"

"Yeah." Dean mutters, swatting at one of Colt's ass cheeks. "Under the pillow... Our Punk is a messy little thing, aren't you?" Dean turns to Punk, and something in his chest clenches. He's never seen Punk blush before, but he wants to see it again, and again, until he can't remember what Punk looks like without his cheeks reddened. "What's got you pulling this cute little tomato impression? Hmm, Punkin?" Dean kisses one of Punk's warmed cheeks, moving to brace himself over Punk, and he tries to turn away, but Dean rests his hand on the other side of Punk's face keeping him where he is.

"_Our_." Colt says softly, his chin digging into Dean's shoulder. "He likes the sound of that, don't you Punkers?" The blush on Punk's face deepens, creeping down his neck and over his ears. "You spend long enough not being wanted, when someone does it's unexpected, but then when two people want you... Well, that's kind of even better, isn't it, Gerbil?" Dean hadn't expected Colt to turn this on him, and he can feel his own cheeks heating up as he stares down into Punk's eyes. He's keenly aware of Colt's warmth against his back, and whilst part of him is screaming at him to run, that warmth, the softness in Punk's eyes, and the vast majority of Dean is more than desperate to stay right where he is. "My poor little strays." Colt kisses Dean shoulder, and Dean closes his eyes. He's never had anyone lay a claim on his like that, and by the look on Punk's face, he has and hearing it never gets old. "So many people want you, but your mine... _Both_ of you, mine, mine, mine." As he talks Colt presses firm, nipping little kisses along Dean's back, and he knows that being claimed like this should be freaking him out, but instead Dean only feels utterly disarmed, and completely content. He's never wanted there to be even the slightest hint of submission in him before, but with Colt it feels less like it'd be submitting, and more like being looked after. He's never trusted anyone to look after him, not even Punk, but he's no doubt that Colt would be more than capable of it, he's got a proven track record on how well he looks after damaged strays after all. Dean smiles down at Punk, and Punk leans up, kissing Dean softly.

"_I love you_." Punk whispers as he breaks the kiss, and Dean can feel a flush on his cheeks. Of all the times for Punk to tell him that, now was probably not the best choice, but it's said, and Punk doesn't look inclined to take it back. Dean stares down at him, and Punk chuckles, shaking his head. "Out the way, Deano. You wanted to watch Bana fucking me, didn't you? Well, you're gonna have to move for that."

"_He means it, you know that, right?_" Dean freezes at Colt's whisper, and there's a huff of sighed breath on the skin of Dean's back. "_Don't worry... It'll be alright._" Colt kisses the back of Dean's neck, his words barely audible, and somehow they make Punk telling him he loved him right then seem far less terrifying. Colt's entirely too good at making Dean feel safe and reassured, which basically everything Dean never has, and never expected to feel. Punk's staring up at Dean, in his eyes something soft and indulgent is warring with impatience, and impatience seems to be winning.

"Don't be too easy on him." Dean turns so that he's facing Colt, and drags him into a kiss that's far rougher but just as brain breaking as every other kiss he's had with Colt. "He's brat."

"Has been for years." Colt laughs, and Punk snorts, his hand running down Dean's back to spank his ass. "_Punkers_, play nice." There's a _hint_ of chastisement in Colt's tone, and as Dean glances at Punk as he moves to lie beside them, there's more than a hint of apology in Punk's eyes.

"C'mon Bana, I'm ready... Fuck me" Colt ignores Punk, and lubes his fingers once more, sliding one into Punk's ass.

"_Ready_ my ass..." Colt scoffs, and he starts prepping Punk carefully. There's a look of thwarted, and frustrated desire in Punk's eyes, and Dean almost feels sorry for him. It's clear that Punk _wants _to be fucked, but it's also clear that Colt isn't going to just fuck him. Colt's going to prep him, and prep him fully, delaying what Punk wants to make it sweeter when he _finally_ gets it.

"Gotta make sure you're not gonna be hurt, Punkin." Dean kisses Punk, distracting him with kisses and touches that are complimentary to the way Colt's stretching him, slow and careful touches that Dean isn't used to giving Punk's body, touches Dean has never really given to _anyone_. Suddenly Punk makes a small gasping moan, and Dean realises he missed seeing Colt penetrate Punk. He moves away slightly to get a better angle to watch Colt's cock entering Punk's tight ass, to watch Punk's body stretch around the dick moving inside of him. Without thought, Dean reaches out to stroke over Punk's stretched hole, feeling where Punk ends, and Colt begins. "Fuck... Fuck me... That's beautiful" Dean mutters, Punk moans, and Colt snorts.

"Outta the way, Gerbil." Colt sounds more amused than anything, and Dean stops touching Punk's stretched hole, his hand moving to roll Punk's balls briefly, and jerk his cock once, before taking a hold of Dean's own reawakened cock, jerking it in time with Colt's deliberate thrusts, and Punk's soft, breathy moans. It seems that Colt fucks like he kisses, thoroughly, intensely, in a way designed to destroy all conscious thought that isn't focused on how good it feels. Punk and Dean are good together, sex between them is incredible, but there's always a part of Punk that's coherent, that's able to snap him out of the moment and into a mood, a part of Punk's that's still in control. With Colt, it seems, that Punk is able to let go of everything, with Colt there's only sensations, only emotions, and to be allowed to witness Punk letting go like this is incredible. When he comes, Punk is almost silent, his breath catching, his body quivering, his back arched. Colt follows shortly after, curling into Punk, coming with something softly whispered into Punk's ear that makes him shiver in Colt's arms. Dean's second orgasm washed over him as he watched Punk and Colt come down. They stay joined for a few moments, and Dean moves away, leaving a space between Punk and himself. He wants to be cuddled by Colt, and he hopes the space he created will be tactic invitation enough. It seems to be as Colt withdraws from Punk's body, and flops onto his back, Punk immediately snuggling up to him, and Colt's arm wraps around his waist. "C'mere then." Colt's other arm slips under Dean's shoulders, and Dean moves closer once more, his head against Colt's shoulder.

"Thank you." Dean mutters, and Punk glances up at him a smile on his lips that implies that Dean is foolish for thanking them. That smile implies that for as long as Dean stays, as long as he trusts Punk and Colt to look after him, sex like this will always be on the menu.

"No Hanukah bush." Colt says after a while, and Dean looks up at him, Punk doesn't bother, he seems pretty content where he is, his breathing seems to be evening out like he was slipping into sleep.

"What?" Dean wriggles slightly, and Colt kisses his hair, his hand moving from around Dean's shoulders to start stroking his sweat-dampened mane.

"If we're spending next Christmas in Hell House, no Hanukah bush. You two can have a Christmas tree, and I'll be quite content to steal the candy canes from it." Colt laughs, and Dean presses a kiss to his chest. Punk's home sounds like a good place to spend Christmas next year, but Dean thinks he's going to miss this cramped little cabin, he wouldn't object to coming back here.

"We'll get a menorah instead." Punk mumbles, nuzzling at Colt, and Dean smiles at him. Sleepy Punk is impossibly cute, and if this whole cabin thing hadn't happened Dean would have never seen this side of Punk. He'd have had cranky Punk, or horny Punk, or bored out of his mind Punk, but not sleepy Punk, and that Punk is a favourite of Dean's now that he's seen him. "I sleep now... No more talking." Punk's clearly trying for firm and intimidating, and it's kind of sad that he manages soft and adorable instead. They lie in silence for a few moments, Punk seeming to have fallen fast asleep, soft snuffling noises escaping him every so often.

"Colt?" Dean whispers softly, he's not sure why but he wants to say something to him, wants to _thank_ him once more, but when Colt looks at him, there's no words that come to Dean's mind. He ends up staring blankly at Colt for a few seconds, before Colt's kisses him again, and starts petting his hair again. Dean lies there feeling like he's falling with every caress, with every puff of Punk's breath on his skin, Dean feels like he's plummeting, but he's not afraid, he can't be, because he knows exactly what's waiting for him when he lands.

"its okay, Gerbil. I'll catch you."

* * *

><p><em>Thank you to my dear <strong>littleone1389, HaphazardbyMikey <strong>(also thank you! *^-^*)**, Hyrde and johncenapunkjericholic **__for the reviews. :3_

_And last but not least (?) we have **Walking in a Winter Wonderland**, one of my all time favourite Christmas songs! I hope this is okay for those of you who wanted some PunkBanaBrose. If I take one thing away from this little personal Christmas present, it's that for some strange reason this is now a viable threesome in my mind. :3 _

**_You can't give me an apple _****_for Christmas _****_like my students did, but you can give me a review! ;)_**

_I'm also considering doing a poll to see if there are any of the one-shots (not tied to any other continuity) readers would like to see expanded on - let me know what you think my dears! *\(^O^)/* _


	26. Track Listing

_1. _**God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen: **_Warnings: Slash (Unspecified/Punk), Minor Slash__(Colt/Punk), Smut,__Profanity, Domestic Abuse, AU._

_2. __**Little Drummer Boy: Warnings**__: Set in the continuity of _**_Chasing the Wind _**_and it's sequel __**Walk in the Snow**__. __2nd person Colt PoV, AU (heavily AU, no wrestling, the S.E.S is a real cult) slash (Colt/Punk),__minor het (Dean Ambrose/OC),__profanity, smut, brief mentions of eating disorder._

3. _**It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas: **_Warnings:_7 Sins Continuity_ 3rd person PoV, Het (Punk/AJ Lee), Smut, Inappropriate use of candy canes.

_4. _**I'll Be Home For Christmas: **_Warnings: Slash __(Ambrose/Punk), __Mild Profanity, Set in the _**_Visiting Grave continuity _**_(well after the current story - this is well in the future - so no spoilers for _**_First Dance_**_)_

_5. __**Baby It's Cold Outside: **__Warnings: Slash__(Orton/Punk),__Profanity, Smut._

6. **Good King Wenceslas: **_Warnings: AU, Mild Profanity, Ambrose/Rollins/Reigns fluff-tastic friendship fluff._

_7. _**The Christmas Song: **_Warnings: 1st person Punk POV, PROFANITY, Minor Slash (Cena/Cabana)._

_8. __**Jingle Bell Rock: **__Warnings: Slash__(Ambrose/Rollins),__Mild Profanity, Smut._

_9. __**Carol of the Bells: **__Warnings: Slash__(Ambrose/Punk),__Mild Profanity, AU._

_10. __**White Christmas: **__Warnings: Slash__(Colt/Punk),__Profanity, Smut, Heavily AU - Mentions of WWII._

_11. __**Last Christmas: **__Warnings: Slash__(Raven/Punk),__Profanity, Experimentally and Pretentiously Written._

_12. __**Driving Home For Christmas: **__Warnings: Slash__(Colt/Punk),__Profanity, Smut, Fluff._

_13. __**Fairytale of New York: **__Warnings: Slash__(Colt/Punk) and (Cena/Punk),__Profanity, Fluff, Split Personality in a kind of Dr Jekyll/Mr Hyde kind of way._

_14. __**Frosty the Snowman: **__Warnings: Fluff, AU, AJ/Punk/Colt Little Kid Friendship. _

**15. ****In Dulci Jubli: **_Warnings: Slash__(Ambrose/Punk),__Mild Profanity, Set in the _**_Visiting Grave continuity_**_(well after the current story - this is well in the future - so no spoilers for _**_First Dance_**_) Sequel to _**_I'll be Home for Christmas_**

_16. _**Silent Night: **_Warnings: Slash__(Ambrose/Rollins) (Colt/Punk),__Profanity, Fluff, AU._

_17. __**Santa Baby: **__Warnings: Slash__(Colt/Punk),__Profanity, Fluff, AU._

18. _**The Coventry Carol: **__Warnings: Minor Slash__(Colt/Punk),__Profanity, Mentions of Previous Child Abuse, AU._

_19. _**Let It Snow: **_Warnings: Slash (Ambrose/Punk), (Colt/Punk), Minor Slash (Ambrose/Colt), (Colt/Ambrose/Punk), Mild Profanity, Fluff._

_20. __**Auld Lang Syne: **__Warnings: 1st Person Cena POV, Slash (Cena/Punk),__Profanity, Domestic Abuse, _**_Dark_**_Cena._

_21. __**The Waltz of the Snowflakes: **__Warnings: Slash (Reigns/Ambrose/Rollins/Punk),__Smut,__Profanity, AU._

_22. __**O Christmas Tree: **__Warnings: Mild Slash__(Finn Bálor/Hideo Itami),__Mild Profanity, Fluff._

**23. **_**In the Bleak Mid-Winter: **__Warnings: Slash (Ambrose/Punk), (Colt/Punk), Minor Slash (Ambrose/Colt), (Colt/Ambrose/Punk), Mild Profanity, Fluff. Sequel to _**_Let It Snow (Ch. 19)_**

_24. _**Christmas for Cowboys: **_Warnings: Slash (Stone Cold Steve Austin/Dean Ambrose), Smut, Mild Profanity, AU._

25. **Walking in a Winter Wonderland: **_Warnings: Slash (Colt/Ambrose/Punk), Mild Profanity, Fluff, Smut, Sequel to _**_In the Bleak Mid-Winter_****_(Ch. 23)_**


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